It is 7.30 p.m. on Thursday. Ordinarily I might be running through a few numbers before playing at a buskers night in a pub tonight. Sadly, I am not up for that this week, since I am laid low with cold/flu. SWMNBM is reluctant to accord the status of flu-sufferer to anyone capable of lifting half a finger off the sick bed, and that is why I have watered down my self-diagnosis with the cold-back-slash-flu wriggle-out. I did go to the doc and he opined that it is viral, and that did encourage me to wave the influenza flag with a moderate degree of confidence when I got home. Admittedly, I have had worse flu than this in the past, but the way I am feeling puts me several degrees of shivering-sweaty-lethargy beyond the definition of a cold. Taste is out of kilter, energy is on holiday, and throat is what the floor of a parrot’s cage might aspire to be.
For the past week I have not been able to concentrate sufficiently to read books or to play the guitar. To have sung would have been to have indulged in a masochistic act of laryngeal torture. Evidently it is not sufficient to feel ill, it is necessary to feel bored, too. And in this state, I do believe you become a different person. One’s power to do things is severely curtailed. Borrowing from the technical vocabulary of the philosophy of mind and action, we could say that the person temporarily ceases to be a fully functioning agent and, literally, swings into patient mode. Getting the flu throws you into a secondary reality. Most of the props in your primary reality are still present but some of them have been greyed out and you can’t really use them (you might not want to use your car, or your lawn mower, or your squash racket, or your books). You are no longer the same person, although your body looks pretty similar (even then, you might look more tired, and certainly more sweaty and/or dishevelled than usual). Your dress code rules change (you are allowed to slop around all day in PJs and a dressing gown when at other times that might be regarded as odd, or even as a statement of personal eccentricity). As the ethnomethodologists might say, you have to learn how to ‘do’ being ill.
Some people are very good at turning this into a first class dramatic performance. They need to be centre stage, with the other occupants of the house carrying out their supporting roles as they give of their best under the spotlights. I have to say I prefer to be left alone to get on with it in my own way, although nevertheless accepting the kindnesses offered by others with gratitude. And indeed, SWMNBM has been very kind this week. She has brought me hot drinks and made me scrambled eggs to eat. Indeed, she even made me chicken soup! And I have to say she makes a mean chicken soup.
I have a suspicion that I might be over the worst now. This afternoon I was able to practice the piano for the first time for a week. With luck, I’ll be out singing again in a week or two. I hope you all avoid the lurgy, my dear blogophiles. Until the next time, I remain…
Your very own,
Enigmatic Pencil
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