The fever has now passed, thank heavens. I don't mind the other symptoms of flu so much, but it's difficult to enjoy life when it feels like someone has set fire to one's face.
Let me paint you a picture of my Monday.
A cluttered room in Highgate, the curtains closed, a narrow single bed on which the occupant, Mr Dickon Edwards, 31, is sprawled with one arm across his brow, trying to suppress his influenza-induced coughings. His hair, white as snow, is more flowing than usual, but more due to procrastination of a trip to the barber's than the result of any aesthetic intent. On the bedside table is a bunch of grapes, kindly provided by Ms O'Donoghue of Finsbury Park, at which he occasionally plucks with ivory fingers. He is listening to the recent Radio 4 dramatisation of "Brideshead Revisited", as well as readings of selected Evelyn Waugh short stories.
All the components of this tableau are either accidental, or entirely devoid of any deliberately aesthetic agenda, yet as he lies there, he realises just what a fictional character <i>manqué</i> he must sometimes seem.
Is this state of affairs a Good or Bad thing? He can't decide. It's true that many of those involved in The War, whether pro or anti, might think very low of him indeed. He is, after all, scant use to anyone. If more people were like him, it's true no one would get bombed. But it's also true that the Working World would grind to a halt. ("Hello, you're through to 24 Hour Emergency Plumbers… Sorry, but we can't deal with any burst pipes right now, due to the fact all our plumbers are too busy listening to Evelyn Waugh").
"Maybe that's just as well", he murmurs huskily to himself, and pulls the blankets over his head as Sebastian Flyte trots off to Morocco.
