The Flu Is At The Door

Kage Baker caught the flu every year. She usually caught it at Dickens Fair, in the seething crowd of happy travellers. Also, in the damp, warm depths of the Cow Palace, which is an incubator of joy, delight and unknown micro-organisms.

Kage always lamented the inevitability of her respiratory defeat.

But modern medicine has risen to the challenge. These last few years, I have religiously gotten my flu shot, and have thus been spared Kage’s annual bout with lung rot.

The only problem is that I am extremely sensitive to the vaccine. It’s only for a day or so, but during the hours right after my flu shit, I am a mess. And tonight’s the night, Dear Readers!

It’s not as bad as having influenza. By tomorrow, I will be fine. It’s an extra strong vaccine this year, though and so tonight … tonight I feel like a stepped-on snail.

I shall now retire and watch The Masked Singer. That show goes well with a fever.

Contemplate the good old nursery rhyme from 1918, Dear Readers, and have a good night.

This tired world is sighing now;

The flu is at the door.

And many folks are dying now,

Who never died before.

Not me, though.