My apologies for not having written last week, but I was struck down by the kind of symptoms Doctor Rumack (actor Leslie Nielsen) once encountered onboard an LA flight to Chicago in the film Airplane!

Indeed, as he so clinically expressed them in the movie: “The poison goes to work on the central nervous system, causing severe muscle spasms followed by the inevitable drooling. At this point, the entire digestive system collapses accompanied by uncontrollable flatulence, until, finally, the poor victim is reduced to a quivering wasted piece of jelly...”

Still, I sit here today as living proof that ‘jelly’ can be re-chilled and re-set and, with the right encouragement, allowed to find its rightful place in society.

Being ill, of course, is never much fun, but personally, being only half ill is much, much worse. Half ill is when, yes, you aren’t well, and, yes, it’s probably best you don’t go into work.

But half ill is also when you still feel haunted by that nagging sense of guilt and horrible, gnawing realisation that everyone – especially in the office – thinks you’re faking.

Being truly ill on the other hand is genuinely life-affirming, because since you’re so truly sick, so vilely and messily unwell, you actually don’t care what the clowns think.

Hell, they could even threaten to fire you and it’d make no difference; in fact, in a funny way, it would prove comforting, knowing you could take the uncaring fools to court, because ‘Hey, Your Honour, I really am that unwell’.

This means, consequently, that you can relax and lie on the sofa, covered in your tartan picnic rug for added warmth and actually enjoy Diagnosis Murder, A Place in The Sun and Deal or No Deal without the slightest twinge of guilt or remorse.

And for just a few brief days you can completely disconnect yourself from the world and your responsibilities within it to simply enjoy the comfort of your clammy cocoon.

Sadly, it’s all over far too quickly, and thanks to modern drugs you’re back on your feet and in the office the following week, the Famous Five book you were so joyishly re-discovering now abandoned beneath the bed, along with the fruit pastilles you sucked on, the Lucozade you sipped from, and the ice-cream you feasted on at 3am.

It’s funny, but one of my most wistful memories is of knocking back an entire bottle of expensive wine at some godless hour after I contracted chicken pox six years ago.

I looked like cold pizza, felt like death, and, wallowing in such glorious self-pity, felt that as the end was nigh, what difference did it make if I slugged the whole bottle back, straight from the lip? (I passed out as it happens straight after, for almost 24 hours, but for those few brief moments on the edge of my bed, dressing gown agape, mouth drooling, I’d never felt freer...).

So, despite the sprints to the bathroom and the sodden sheets, it’s best not to rush these precious moments.

One day, you’ll wonder where they went...