‘It’s only a cold!’ people say irritably. ‘The common cold! Man up!’
Frankly, I am not feeling remotely like manning, womaning or even adolescenting up; in fact, my current response to life – in those precious seconds when I am not producing window-rattling sneezes, gravelly snorts and blowing my nose with all the ferocity of a rampant boar about to charge, spume gushing from my eyes like some kind of localised tsunami – is decidedly lukewarm. I am unenthusiastic, unmoved, tepid, so snot-ridden and feverous that I feel like weeping with misery or barking like an enraged seal; my usual fire and feist is battened down by the bloody virus, and the grey scene outside most certainly does not inspire my lukewarm state to progress up the ladder to fiery heat – nor, come to that, to slither down the serpentine coils to sinister froidure.
Poor old Jumble hasn’t…
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