IT’LL BE A MIRACLE if I make it to next year without coming down with some kind of lurgy. Driving to work this morning I heard a news report on the radio that the United Kingdom is going through its worst flu outbreak for years. Chuck in the winter vomiting bug, colds and whatever else is going about and a load of people are in the wars.
And so I sit here at work and it’s plainly obvious why everyone’s coming down with something. You see, dear reader, for the past week or so the office has resembled a plague ward. Getting anything done is carried out to a constant background of sniffs, sniffles, coughs, sneezes, retching, moans and groans.
My job usually takes me out of the office for much of the week. Just my luck then to be stuck in it when my colleagues’ faces look like they’re melting with all the snot flying about. I can’t walk into a meeting room without feeling like I should have swapped the pinstripe for something with a little more anti-biological capability.
I told a colleague to go home yesterday. “Thinking of my health, Pete? How kind” says she. Take the credit old son, I thought, don’t mention it’s your own health you’re thinking of.
So here’s a word of advice to all those little troopers who won’t be beaten and will get into the office no matter how bad they feel – give in to it. Stay at home. Stay bed with a nice cuppa. Stay away from me and anyone else who hasn’t succumbed. Keep your germs to yourself. A place of work is a place of work. Mine currently resembles Emergency Ward 10. I’m washing my hands as if I’m developing a compulsive disorder. Forget the socks tomorrow; I’ll have a face mask please.
Just as well I’m knocking off at lunchtime, in normal times I’d be lucky to see the weekend.