I was felled by the flu

Not the swine flu, of course, luckily. Just the regular flu. It's actually rather boring, but got me wondering: why do we enjoy telling people how sick we were once we are feeling better? I caught myself actually thinking about – daydreaming more like it - telling my friends just how sick and tired I had been when I returned to work.

No, I thought, don't do that. That is as bad as reciting the dream you had last night. As my friend Vanessa always says, "vaseline on the eyeballs" stuff. Anyway, that didn't stop me from going on about it a couple of people at work today. I tried to stop myself as their faces glazed over, but I couldn't do much more than trim the story by about two-thirds. No matter how much my inner voice was screaming "stop! stop!" I forged ahead with tales of antiobiotics and marathon sleeping sessions. Nothing gross, as that is where I draw the line. I once worked beside someone who had numerous, very audible discussions with his doctor about an infected something - something you could not see to look at him – and I've been vaguely queasy ever since.

I am sure they are thinking about how they will never get those precious moments back. To atone I will patiently listen to two other people tell me about their illnesses.

But that's my absolute limit.