This will not be a long post.
Viruses – the old-fashioned kind – don’t often lay me low; mostly they know better, take one look at the handful of vitamin supplements I swallow every morning and head for the hills. But once in a while, maybe every five years or so, one creeps past the barriers, and so it was last weekend.
It’s still hanging around, demanding attention, telling me to slow down, take things easy, get back to that cosy armchair and pick up that riveting suspense novel, and I can’t say the prospect isn’t tempting. But there’s real life to be lived as well, so, sorry, Mr Virus, enough now, you can’t have it all your own way.
It did have it very much its own way for just one day. On Monday I moved reluctantly from bed to armchair, then hardly moved at all till bed beckoned again a few hours later. I was fine – well, not fine, but OK, give or take a whole box of tissues and double the usual dose of vitamins – as long as I didn’t try to do anything.
Anything, that is, aside from read. Fortunately a new batch of books for review had arrived at the weekend, so all I had to do was reach out a hand.
I can’t recall a single occasion when a bug has left me feeling too lousy to read. Maybe when I was a small child and hadn’t yet mastered the art, but even then there were picture books.
So – how’s this for a treatment for whatever winter virus (winter? It’s not October yet!) comes calling at your door? Lots of vitamin C; maybe double the usual precautionary dose. Warm drinks, preferably made by someone else. A cosy, well-cushioned chair in a room that’s not too warm, not too cool. If you must (I don’t), your pharmaceutical symptom-reliever of choice. And most important of all, a pile of books by your favourite authors.
Works for me.