A friend of mine has had a cough for the last couple of weeks. It's not what you might term a little tickle, oh, no, it's one of those persistent deep coughs that makes me think he's going to lose a lung or perhaps a toenail.
He showed up at our house yesterday, pale and sweaty, carrying a big prescription and the news that he had finally obeyed my sweetheart and his wife and gone to the doctor. The diagnosis? Whooping cough.
Seriously? Whooping cough?
That really exists outside of nursery rhymes? (hush-ah hush-ah, we all fall down...)
We didn't touch him and after ushering him quickly from the premises, we pulled out the bleach, wiped down everything he had been near and dosed ourselves with Vitamin C and disinfectant and hoped for the best.
Now, of course, 12 hours later, I have a wee headache and I just know I've contracted gangrene, dengue fever and several other hideous diseases he brought with him from the germ-infested waiting room occupied by all those sniffling, whining children.