Pre-Christmas
Me, who's never ill, contracted The Dreaded Lurg in the run-up to Crimbo. Biked to work as per on the Wednesday and spent that morning feeling like Billy Ray Cyrus's blood-pumping organ. Up to the point, that is, when I remembered the Lemsip Max nestling at the back of my drawer. Come lunchtime, felt right as Barbara Cartland's daughter.

Had already booked off the next day, a Thursday, as time-off-in-the-loo and had plans aplenty to make a start on some serious present-buying. Woke up around 9am to take more drugs then drifted back to sleep. For another five hours. Didn't purchase many gifts that day.

That weekend, absolutely totally completely 110% recovered, I took a long overdue power shower. Stepped on to the mat and promptly had an attack of the vapours. My mental magic 8-ball presented various options:

• throw up
• wash face
• lie down
• pass out
• remain motionless

Still wet, I slumped on the floor against the pumping hot radiator before streching out on the floor. Gotta get that head level with the heart, advised the doc after my last episode. Minute or so later, normal service resumed. All good since then.

Post-Christmas
The Boy, who's never ill, contracted The Dreaded Lurg in the New Year. While Christmas was officially put back in its box for another twelve months, he lay sweating in his bed or semi-comatose on the sofa with one clouded eye half-watching bad film remakes. Point Break, anyone? Still not right come the weekend, he even ducked out of his Scholl-like shoe shop shifts.

Finally, yesterday, he declared himself officially able to make like Tebbit and take to his bike. Bit of a bummer, then, to find his back wheel flat as a waffle. Drop it off at Ranelagh Road or Halford's, I suggested, on your way to college. Dead helpful, me. Off he walked, pushing that Triban. Now, I was staying at work to play ping-pong and thought I'd make a Dad call early evening to catch up with him:

[DAD] You playing badminton tonight?
[BOY] No, not really up to it.
[DAD] Oh?
[BOY] Yeah, I fainted in Halford's this morning.

He'd strolled half a mile with the dead bike, found one bike shop closed, then wheeled back to Halford's. Carried his racer upstairs to the bike department, said hello to the sales guy, then passed out. Minute or so later, having downed a couple of glasses of water (Halford's guys were excellent and the silly boy hadn't eaten or drunk anything that morning), normal service resumed. All good since then.