You've got to have...medication

Oh my suffering Christ alive! My dose is running like Paula Radcliffe after a potty-break and I've developed a hacking cough that makes me sound very much like I imagine some plague-ridden peasant did in the middle ages, shortly before he was tossed onto a barrow full of pox-marked stiffs and wheeled off to what would today be known as a municipal subterranean composting and recycling centre but was, in the parlance of the times, known as a plague pit.

Yes, I have a cold. I caught it from my boss, who insisted in holding a meeting in an enclosed office and working her way through a pack of ultra balms. I myself have put a dent in the tissue population, my desk-side bin is nearly overflowing with damp tissues, all I need is a copy of 'Razzle' lying beside it and the recreation of my bedroom at Avenue Road can begin.

I myself have broken the cardinal rule - never come in the office when you're sick* today. However, my meeting this afternoon is with somebody who, frankly, could use a good dose of avian bird flu or whatever the hell it is.

I am, of course, medicated. Not for me toughing it out or any of this complimentary rot - I've been downing lemsip like a man possessed. God knows what's in it but my nose instantly dries up and my coughing subsides. It's probably fortified with nature's store of vitamins, minerals and isotopes.

Also, it's non-drowsy. This is excellent news, I've always wondered what it would be like to spend an afternoon awake at my desk. Now that I'm knocking back a beverage presumably loaded with amphetamine, I shall find out.

*Or hungover, or have something better to do, or just can't be arsed.