There I was, minding my own business, floating along quite happily on the changing tides of life, when the virus attacked. I came home a couple of days ago with my eyes burning, my body aching and my skin sore and hot. Protesting valiantly between sneezes and coughs, I did eventually give in to paranoic paternal pressure and my own feeling of ow-ow-ow-blah and went to bed, with my huggy pillow, fuzzy blankie and an Aspirin (the drug, not the book) for company. Having been there for a whole day, I want out; I want to revel in the rain, marvel at the monsoon, soak in the sog - you know, all that good alliterative stuff - but there is one small problem: I can't find my knees. I seem to have left them somewhere en route to the Great Sweat that vanquishes fever and I now wobble about the house with a very odd sense of jelly between my hips and my feet.
Viral fever, my father said sagely. Viral fever, my driver told me. Viral fever, my friend cautioned me. And everyone told me what to do. They are still doing so and probably will continue to do so for a while yet. We will talk about what they have to say the next time we meet, at proper length, when my little germ and I are all set to face the big bad world again. For now, I go knee-hunting...
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