Last updated 19:38, Thursday, 27 March 2008

I’d already taken to my sick bed when Aly called to thank me for her Easter card and chatter on excitedly about snowball fights in Leeds, children sledging on Otley Chevin and her own plans for building a snowman.

“Aren’t you a bit old for that?” I wondered...thinking of her 57-year-old knees.

“No, of course not. I just love it!”

She’d been out walking – more like trudging – in what she called proper deep, squeaky snow for two hours or more. I swear I could hear the burning glow from her red nose and ears down the line. I could also hear her slurping hot chocolate.

“Terrific,” I said, though, as a life-long hater of snow, I thought it all sounded anything but. “I’m in bed with flu.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. You should have said straight away. In bed with who...? Never mind, well done you. Call when you can.”

And off she went. Back to her winter wonderland, hot chocolate and hotter gossip.

Lacking the energy to care too much, I imagined she’d be passing word out – by semaphore if necessary – among the old crowd that I’d found myself a Cumbrian bank holiday afternoon lover; that Brampton was a deceptive little town after all, more seething hotbed of sensuality than Trumpton... which they like to call it to make me cross.

Ah well, as my mum used to say, a girl’s nothing without a reputation – even a false one. Pondering the thought, I stumbled barefoot to the kitchen for another Lemsip, counting blessings of appetite loss, alcohol abstention and inability even to think about lighting a cigarette. Illness can have surprising health benefits.

In real terms it was a wash-out. Easter, the earliest apparently for nearly 100 years, was for so many stricken by the dreaded recurring bug, a definite let-down.

Obviously a locally unique bug this. It has targeted Cumbria specifically for its full-throttled attack, since no friends or acquaintances in other parts of the country have experienced the repeated flattening effects of its particular brand of lurgy... four, five, six times since Christmas for some.

Had Aly stayed on the phone long enough, I might have told her even our Easter snow had been disappointing. Heavy, threatening flurries made plans for away-days impossible. I had to feel sorry for the parents of kids on holiday from school – nowhere to go, nothing to do and a government health warning on computer and video games. Nightmare.

My only excursion had been to the local pharmacy to restock on Lemsip and Kleenex.

“Oh dear...” the lady behind the counter looked concerned for her own health as much as for mine as she served at arm’s length. “You should be indoors with a cup of tea, feet up and then bed.”

You know how some women look attractively fragile, delicately pale and wan, like a pretty flower losing her bloom when ill? You know how some take on the appearance of a consumptive character from Jane Austen, all doe-eyed and in need of protection from some big strong man?

Suffice to say, I’m not one of them. Heavy cold or full-blown flu, I can be counted on to frighten the horses, send concerned calling neighbours running for cover – even a kindly friend bringing sympathy and flowers did so backing away in fright.

Still, in spite of all draw-backs, Easter is forever its own new beginning and even when grounded by vicious virus, growing weary of four bedroom walls and a ceiling that really could do with a lick of paint, it offers opportunity for looking forward to brighter, sunnier days in warmer climes. Holidays.

“I’ve been trying to phone you at work. Need to speak urgently.” Another chirpy caller.

“I’m in bed with flu.”

“Who?”

“No, not who...”

“They’re holding those flights we spoke of and must confirm today. Should I go ahead?”

“Yes.”

“Fine. Talk later. Sorry to disturb. Please pass my apologies to Stu.”

“Flu! I’m in bed with flu!”

“Whoever. Well done you. Tell me about him later.”

It’s a cruel irony really. When looking and feeling your worst, with just Kleenex, Lemsip and a big thick book for company, the world outside your own imagines a life akin to a character from Desperate Housewives and can’t wait to catch up with the detail... which of course it will.

Be sure I’ll fill them in with every last cough and splutter. No point in suffering when you can’t let people know about it and indicate – when again in blooming health – that whatever may have been misheard by virtue of breathing difficulties, in Trumpton there are much better things to do than flu, Stu... or whoever.