by Rachel Stewart

So, this is me after a week in bed. How do I look? Can I bore you with my flu story?

Last Friday lunchtime was the last time I ate. A few short hours later I was flat on my back, duvet either wrapped tight around me or thrown off in a sweat. I explained to the dog that it was just us, and that her usual routine was about to be interrupted. I suspect she only heard static.

Tradesmen were cancelled, which is always a heartbreaking affair when you’re not sure you’ll be able get them back again in a timely manner. I placed some tissues, Berocca, Panadol, and water on the bedside table and plunged headfirst into my customary influenza fever dreams about the weird and bizarre, and tried to sleep it off.

My extreme guilt about the dog not getting exercised got the better of me and on day three I dragged my carcass into the Jeep and drove out to the nearest wild and windy west coast beach. I had to sit down and rest on logs a lot but mutto did her best to exercise herself and an hour later I dragged my tired, sweaty carcass back into a bed that severely needed the sheets changed. But I didn’t have it in me to do it, so one more night wouldn’t matter I figured – until it turned into three more, then it did.

Because when you’re sick you’re head has trouble with thinking. You know, angles, which way the fitted sheet goes, is it a queen size, even colour matching the sheets is a challenge, and what’s my dog’s name again? Oh, and don’t get me started on how to put the duvet cover back on.

Once finally back in the sack, I was hopeful I could read or do a puzzle or just watch a movie and blob but, no. My brain was still not braining. I felt like I was going cuckoo.

Just then a text came in and made me jump from the loudness. Don’t you hate noise when you’re ill? I know I do. It was a message from my doctor’s surgery reminding me of my advancing age and why I should book in for the flu jab. You know, because it might kill me. Which one? The flu or the jab? Thanks, I thought, but I’ll take my chances with the more organic flu death rather than a pricky, synthetic one.

It was about now that I thought I should probably mention to someone that I was home alone with the dog and the flu and that maybe they could take her – the dog – away for some playtime with their dogs, or something helpful. Fortunately someone out there who stills cares a jot for me did just that, despite that fact that her affection for me is not a patch on her affection for my dog. She saved the day.

And now it’s day six and I’m talking to you. The show must go on, right? But what to talk about? I have read virtually nothing while I’ve been out of it, so what’s happened in the world?

I noted that two Acts of God happened.

Well, Dolly died. A force for enormous good in the world left the world.

Nepal suffered terrible mudslides which have killed hundreds, including NZers.

And two unnatural things happened.

The National Party is continuing its ridiculous election stunt of banning social media for under 16s.

The WNBA continues its farcical ‘woke’ anti-women run, and I see they’ve refused to let those two big, ex-NBA blokes play in the league because they’re “not real trans”. Who says?

In other words, it’s crazy town business as usual.

But, hey. My flu was way more important. To me, at least. You know, it’s peculiar. When you’re sick you totally see why God invented death. You could quite happily slip away into the peaceful arms of blackness, just to end the suffering. But, no, it looks like I’ve got another run in me and, oh joy, I get to stick around a bit longer to see what more fresh hell is coming down the global pipeline.

Anyway, before you judge me too sharply for being overdramatic, It may well be that I have only survived precisely because it was the lady flu variant and not the deadly and dreaded man flu.

Listen to the full episode of Riding Shotgun.