Within the last couple of days I’ve been laid low with the noravirus. A pathogen which, although I’m assured isn’t as potentially dangerous as coronavirus, subjects the sufferer to a fairly distressing time symptom wise.
Actually, with candour I don’t officially know if I’ve contracted noravirus; I’m self-diagnosing. Ordinarily a habit I find contemptible, however I’m going with that theory as my symptoms bear an uncanny similarity to what Austrian medic Dr Frugal Horne describes within his lauded scientific paper ‘Where’s My Running Shoes’.
For the uninitiated, the primary medical consequence of contracting this pathogen are its victim’s posterior briefly turns into a sorta oxtail soup making machine. Additionally, they develop mild fever, stomach cramps and hallucinations they’re the ghost of late ‘This Is Your Life’ presenter Eamon Andrews.
In relation to the final symptom, I don’t know what freaks the individuals you approach more. Them being presented with a red biographical book by a spectre, or my ham-fisted Irish accented “Yes, you thought you were here to open yourself a Costco account and stock up on chardonnay…… But tonight, (insert name). This is your life!”
Footnote – I could’ve done with a Costco card the other day to allow me to purchase toilet paper in the vast quantities required when noravirus comes calling.
My buddy Sarah’s advice has proved invaluable towards reducing impact on my body and soul during these physically distressing few days. Her advocacy yours truly drink lots of fluids to keep hydrated, add a little salt to whatever I consume while symptoms persist, and ignore any urge to present biographical data, going someway towards making my energy sapping plight more bearable.
Another downside to contracting noravirus is, because of jeopardy involved when over 50 yards from a toilet, I’ve not been able to risk walking my (well, Sarah’s) dogs within the last couple of days.
Consequently, Deano and Zella have spent their last 48 hours looking on with bemusement as, with alarming regularity, their new ‘doggy dad’ dashes past them to the bathroom. Perhaps pondering to themselves “Why doesn’t he just go in the garden like us?…. After all, there’s less of a distance to dash!”
After a night where I sweated profusely, thankfully this morning I woke up feeling significantly better. Following two days of pallor, a healthier hue’s returned to my face. Incidentally, the sweating wasn’t a consequence of fever; rather from the shock of receiving my vastly increased energy bill.
Pre-lunch also saw me undertake a laundry load, walk the dogs and, most importantly, not once feel moved to present a startled individual with a book bearing the words ‘This Is Your Life’ in gold leaf.
“Thank heavens for small mercies!” as my dear departed mum would oft proffer…. Not to mention, “Thank heavens for little girls!” as Maurice Chevalier sang in the musical Gigi ….. The late French singer going on to say of the fairer sex “No matter where, No matter who. Without them what would little boys do?”…. Now there’s a question I’m keen to avoid in an era of transgender sensitivities.
Anyhow, I’m hoping I’m over the worst of Nora’s wrath and within a day or so feel fully back in the swing of things. I’ve a few things on this week and I don’t want to have to cancel them because I’m unable to confidently control my motions.
Right, as it’s lunch time I’m bringing this narrative to its conclusion. Apologies if some of the less salubrious content of this prose has put you off yours!!
