Le flu'

I have the 'flu! Now don't try to make me feel better by saying how sure you are that it is just a cold - the technicality of it doesn't matter a hoot to me. I feel terrible. For the last few days pain and misery have been my companion. By actually writing this piece I am further sacrificing my health because staring at the computer screen makes my eyes go all wobbly and puffy. But what the hell - nothing else but to crack on.

I am convinced that I would not fall foul of these nasty winter ailments if I were to live in the south of France, where in the depths of winter the climate is rather more springlike than anything else. The sunshine, I just know, would purge my body of every last toxin whilst the fresh local produce, bought from the marketplace and picked from le Monsieur's field that very morning, would stoke my body with every vitamin and mineral necessary for a healthy lifestyle. And I do not think we should ever underestimate the potential health benefits of a reliable and inexpensive supply of red wine, olives and pastis.

With due deference to the boffins, it has been scientifically proven that red wine, when taken in due moderation of course, can prevent heart disease. Coming from Scotland, the heart disease capital of the universe, this is a great relief to me. I may die a ravaged old alcoholic but the old ticker will keep going long after my liver has worn out. And olives from whence comes olive oil, natures great lubricant. If you want to be privy to the secret of a healthy Mediterranean complexion and wish to stop your knees cracking when you get up in the morning - well get some extra virgin into you.

My research, however, has been unable to identify any health giving properties of pastis. Suffice to say that it is a tasty, aromatic drink and you know what they say - a little bit of what you fancy does you good! And it tastes great with a nice dish of mixed olives so tuck in.

The reality of my current state though is that the good old horse doctor has prescribed me a dose of antibiotics - oh quelle suprise. My throat is so sore that I cannot swallow water, let alone wine or pastis, and I have no appetite for porridge let alone a selection of delicate olives. I have, it's true, succumbed to my illness.

I am not, you will have gathered, a good patient. I am demanding and feel exceptionally sorry for myself. I believe that the germs of the World have chosen me as their host. (This could make a good plot for a sci-fi thriller couldn't it? Hmm, a novel eh?) And I am one of these foolish men who cries for their mother to mop their fevered brow - at least I am this time round because my loving wife has gone to Dublin for the weekend with her chums from work, leaving me alone to fight the miseries.

My mother would be appalled. She tends to regard infections or ailments of any sort on your own incompetence and negligence. She called me just the other night to ask how I was doing and I made rather a song and dance about being at death's door and all that (well I thought it was funny). Her reaction? Sympathy? Pity? Concern? Well she's my mum so I did get all that but I also got a lengthy lecture on the need to wrap up warmly, especially when coming out of air conditioned offices and to always but always button up my overcoat properly and wear a hat.

Those readers with a similarly pre-occupied mother will appreciate that any protestations of mine to the effect that I do button up my coat and do wear a hat are met with a few choice words like, 'yes but by the time you button up your coat it's too late and that hat, well, you could spit peas through it!'. Argument is, of course, useless.....

Me....'But mum, Agent Mulder never buttons up his overcoat, never wears a hat and he seems pretty healthy!'

Mum...'But that's America and it's only TV anyway. Now, are you wearing that vest I bought you for Christmas?'

Me....'Yes Mum.'

It doesn't just end there though. I have to go through a complete inventory of my cold weather gear. None of which is suitable. My dear old Mum informs me that I need to get some new gloves, good woollen ones. And those cotton socks? No good! Get a good thick pair of woollen ones. (Are you beginning to get a picture here?) And whilst we're at it, that overcoat is no good (Aha, I've got her here - but Mum, it's made of wool I cry triumphantly). Doesn't matter, she replies, you want a nice thick anorak, preferably with storm cuffs and a nice warm lined hood.

I am beginning to develop an evolutionary theory all of my own from all this informal research. Nerds, computer, train or whatever type are just ordinary people who actually do everything that their mothers tell them. They do not question her logic or authority. Seems like a pretty sound theory to me.

Now down in the south of France, I've never seen a computer nerd. Or any other sort for that matter. And do you want to know why? Well I'll tell you anyway. Good weather. You see if anyone does come down with something there, it cannot be attributed to not buttoning up your coat, or wearing the wrong kind of socks. No, indeed the French accept that if you come down with something, then you just need to get on with curing it in whatever way suits you.

Now where's that bottle?