pixpopuli – blog

Did I pick it up here, at this fast food joint, as I sat waiting for my order, experimenting with shakeitphoto to pass the time? They have a bench where you wait for take-out orders, and it was occupied by a man and his young child. I took their place when they got up to leave, and I remember wondering whether that kid was carrying swine flu.

As I waited, I made a few photographs, including this one of a woman who came to the counter to complain. I remember trying not to touch anything in the restaurant. On the way out I waited until someone entered, so I could exit without touching the handle.

I don’t know why I’ve been so anxious about catching something this year. We first heard of the H1N1 while we were in Australia, but didn’t think much of it at the time. A couple of weeks ago, I tried to get a flu shot from my doctor, but none was available.

And now, I am infected, but not, apparently, with swine flu. It seems to be a run of the mill gut infection, which in Australia might be called gastroenteritis, or ‘gastro’ for short. In the US they call it stomach flu. Whatever you call it, it’s rather unpleasant. It’s been years since I had such an illness, and I’m glad of that.

I kept looking for ways to interpret my symptoms as swine flu, but in the end it just didn’t add up. So, in order to maintain at least a semblance of melodrama, I’ll just call it the Miasma, and picture myself fading away as if I had been written by Thomas Mann.

And so, the Miasma seems to have been creeping about the house like an invisible intruder. Suddenly, I have a designated drinking glass, and I’m noticing more hand washing than usual. And then, Florence (as in Nightingale) decides it would be best if she were to sleep in the spare room, for the time being. The time being being until the Miasma has passed. I haven’t checked, but I think she also put a biohazard sign on the front door. I’m still allowed contact with the dogs, probably because they are of such vigorous constitution that they would give smallpox the plague before succumbing to anything themselves.

The treatment, to begin with, was rest, fluids, and alternating ibuprofen and acetaminophen. These didn’t seem to have any effect on the progress of the sickness. Rather, they exchanged one kind of discomfort for another. Apparently, medicated discomfort is somehow preferable to god given discomfort, but the precise way in which it is better eludes me at the moment. After a day of no measurable improvement, Florence visited the apothecary and obtained some medicinal herbs, assuring me that they would stem the flow, or calm the waters, or hold back the tides, or some metaphor that unites the concepts of stopping and liquid.

Now I’m not one to pooh pooh the wonders of modern medicinal herbs, but I’ve seen these herbs before. Only then they were in the form of a disgusting pink potion, instead of these innocent looking tablets. And every time I drank that potion, it seemed to have no effect at all.

Nevertheless, I had (more or less involuntarily) adopted the role of patient, and it only made sense to do Flo’s bidding. And she insisted that I take the herbs. Being in the end a biddable man, I agreed to be bidden. I am forever in debt to Flo. Thanks, Flo!

While she was out fetching and carrying, Flo also went to Canter’s to get some Jewish Penicillin. This remedy is one in which I have developed inestimable faith, and I was in no way reluctant to partake, despite the protestations of my inner tubes.

In addition, as evidenced by this photo, which shows my entire nutritional input for a 24 hour period, I prescribed myself what I shall hereby name Australian Penicillin.

Certainly when I was ill as a child, which was often, my mother would dispense this treatment with alacrity. The only more common remedy was tea, which was used for all purposes, medicinal and otherwise:

Australia won the fifth test.
Alright, I’ll put the kettle on.

The Americans have put a man on the moon.
Oh wonderful, I’ll just put the kettle on.

India just won the fifth test.
Hmm, let’s have a cuppa.

It’s raining.
That’s nice dear, I’ll just put the kettle on.

It’s stopped raining.
Another cup?

Mum, my girlfriend dumped me.
Ah well. Cup of tea?

Dad, Ryan and Walker have been recaptured.
Good son, tell your mother to put the kettle on.

At least one of these remedies seems to have done the trick. The gurglings and rumblings and explosions seem to have abated. The temperature is hovering around normal, and the brain seems once more functional. As much as I’d like to give credit to the medicinal herbs, I feel I must attribute this improvement to the double dose of ethnic penicillin.

But although I feel better, the Miasma is still evident. Flo has insisted that I strip the bed and incinerate the sheets and blankets. You can never be too sure, she said, and of course you can’t. She still refuses to kiss me, except on the top of the head. I guess she thinks the Miasma particles are not attracted to the top of the head. The dogs seem glad to regain access to both their sofas, as I had been occupying one of them on and off. I thought I would be able to go to work this morning, but received a “Not so fast” reminder from my body, and thought it best to keep my coding pants (a.k.a pyjamas) on and work from home instead.

I’m sure that come tomorrow, the Miasma will have passed, and I’ll be back at work carving monuments of code from granite boulders. Probably. In the meantime, I think I’ll just put the kettle on.

This entry was posted on Tuesday, November 17th, 2009 at 8:11 am and is filed under Uncategorized. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.