Saying no to P with Paula B

This column is dedicated to everyone who has had or will have the flu this winter. Let us all join with clammy palms and brows and feel great pity for ourselves.

I am near the end of my personal Great Plague but I’m definitely still missing some of the brain cells that I have sweated away.

Now I remember the difference between a cold and the flu. A cold is when I will be a big baby and complain a lot. A flu is when I’m so sick I can’t even be bothered to complain because moving my mouth to do so feels like extraordinary effort.

I knew something was wrong when I fell asleep one night before 10pm without trying to fight my way through to midnight.

When I woke up around 3am, it wasn’t to fend off annoying cats deciding it should be breakfast time, it was to untwist myself from the wet tornado of sheets that had somehow entrapped me.

If the cats had come, I would have told them to go ahead and eat my dying body, just like we’d agreed. The end was nigh.

Just days before, I’d welcomed a new cat to my clowder. She was sleeping under the bed and she snores. I was snoring too, often waking myself with my own hoggy noises. My room sounded like a dual-toned monster. I wanted my mummy.

Mostly I was either awake, feeling too hot or too cold. I was a mixture of profuse sweat and a chattering jaw. Or I was in the only truly comfortable place, asleep.

Even being asleep came with its own madness. Fever dreams. The outlandish ones were delirious at times. I couldn’t tell what was real. At fever height, I had to check my email inbox to see if I’d sent an email I thought I had or not.

I called a woman Barbara, her name was Sue. I sent a message to a man named Bill with the greeting ‘‘Hello Zoltan’’.

I was not well.

After four or five days, I left the house wearing pyjama bottoms and an overcoat. I drove to the dairy (which is only about 50m from my house) to buy cat food and lemonade, and I really did not care who saw me. I might add that this was a Friday night. I opened the Sprite and threw a pity party.

You convince yourself that not eating is a good thing and that four almonds and six dates is enough. Perhaps you will emerge from your sick bed as a swimsuit model. But everything passes and your appetite returns. Suddenly you are a snake, making a whole roast meal for one, devouring it, barely chewing and lying, cast on the bed.

This flu has whacked me for ten days now. I’m long past the worst but something lingers. I still don’t feel quite right. Each day must include a nap and I have little trouble falling asleep at night.

On the bright side, my washing basket is only pyjamas and a robe as I’ve barely been dressed. It’s not mental illness so I don’t feel the extra guilt for missing things that comes with saying, ‘‘sorry, I’ve been depressed’’. Plus I know my local dairy stocks the type of cat food my kitties won’t turn their nose up at. Every cloud, I suppose.

And so, a celebratory nose blow to trumpet in a new era of wellness.

Good luck out there everyone. Stay warm. MONDAY: Los Angeles: Negotiations with Eminem’s agent break down over Steven Joyce’s plan to rap the 2017 Budget to the tune of ‘‘The Real Slim Shady’’. Joyce vows to press on, saying he has found a sound-alike backing track that is ‘‘pretty legal’’.

Riyadh: Donald Trump leaves Saudi Arabia after meeting with the nation’s top leaders, vowing to relax future Muslim travel bans for ‘‘guys like these, at least’’.

‘‘They’re tremendously rich, they buy our guns and they won’t let a woman near a steering wheel. What’s not to like?’’

TUESDAY: West Auckland: Following her advice to New Zealanders not to switch from weed to methamphetamine, Paula Bennett refuses to be drawn on the question of whether you should tip your marijuana dealer.

Jerusalem: As a first step in brokering a Middle East peace

‘‘When I woke up around 3am, it wasn’t to fend off annoying cats deciding it should be breakfast time, it was to untwist myself from the wet tornado of sheets that had entrapped me.’’

agreement President Trump offers to buy up the disputed holy sites of the Temple Mount and Church of the Holy Sepulchre and have them moved to beside the clubhouse at Mar-A-Lago.

‘‘That way anyone of any religion who has already ponied up for the green fees and/or buffet can have access to these beautiful sites’’, the President explained.

‘‘It’s a win-win and a tremendous deal and I say that with great surety’’. WEDNESDAY: Wellington: Steven Joyce wakes in a cold sweat fretting that he has sent the wrong Budget to the printers, hurriedly checks the parliamentary calendar on his iPhone and sinks back into a deep slumber, reassured that yes, this is an election year.

Rome: Pope Francis and President Trump exchange gifts of their favourite books: one the story of a man of humble birth whose divine nature, wise words and personal charisma lead to him being worshipped around the world, and the other a copy of the New Testament.

THURSDAY: Rome: Melania Trump claims sanctuary in the Sistine Chapel after ducking in on the pretext of getting some colour palette inspirations for Trump Tower, but is refused asylum on the grounds that Italian law forbids a wife claiming diplomatic immunity from her husband.

Wellington: As Steven Joyce’s budget speech concludes he is surrounded by applauding National MPs and slipped a twenty dollar bill by Paula Bennett. Bill English remains in his seat, distracted by his attempt to upload a selfie with a custard square to his Twitter feed.

Christchurch: Bishop Victoria Matthews credits personal tuition from former All Black and top point-scorer Dan Carter after successfully kicking the cathedral can further down the road.

FRIDAY: West Auckland: The Aotearoa Legalise Cannabis Party approaches Paula Bennett to be its leader under the slogan ‘‘The Only P You Need Is Paula’’.

Wellington: Steven Joyce files ‘‘Look what Uncle Steve’s brought you’’ budget away for next three years, diaries calendar to bring up ‘‘Fiscal Responsibility and Belt-Tightening for a Strong and Stable Economy’’ budget in eleven months’ time.