Why It Is Inadvisable To Look In A Mirror When Recovering From Flu. Or Out Of The Window.

Well, I seem to be able to smoke again, so I suppose I must be on the mend, even though I still feel as if I've been hit by a bus.

Actually, I look as if I've been hit by a bus, too. Unlike Annoying Ellen. When I opened the bedroom curtains a minute ago, there she was in her garden, hanging her washing out. She must buy that underwear just for show.

I'm surprised she didn't spot me watching her, as my nose is still completely luminous.  Constant sex must protect against flu, if not other forms of infection - as I've never seen Ellen with a red nose. Not once. Maybe she has hers Botoxed, along with everything else. (I have seen her with a distinctly white one, but that's another story.)

God, I feel worse now I'm up. I think I may have to go back to bed. My delirium-induced sex-life with Martin Shaw at least had the virtue of feeling restorative, unlike the cold light of day.

Patient's Chart: No Change.

Still dying. Still don't care. And where has Martin got to? I want to wear his wig.

Delirium, Which Is Hard To Spell When You Are Delirious

I've got bloody flu. Not manflu, but the real McCoy: I'm shivering like a mad thing despite a raging temperature. And I don't care about anything. Not roses, not Johnny, not German biscuits. And I don't even want a cigarette, so you know how bad things are.

I suppose it's a good thing Vicky can cover for me while I'm off sick. Though, actually, I don't even care about work. Greg's chaos theory probably applies anyway, and my being absent won't actually make a blind bit of difference to anyone.

I am just going to sleep - all the time - and hope Martin Shaw returns during any delirious moments. As long as he doesn't look at my face either. I bet it looks like shit.

Does any of this make sense? I may be delirious now.