Morning:
12°c
"Barclays back in profit, but Lloyds says it has seen a "significant rise in impairments". Yup, I thought as I turned over the page. A significant rise in impairments. I know that feeling.
The new filling in my tooth was screaming. My toes were still agony after attempting to walk down Highgate Hill in flip-flops (toe wedgie: v v painful). The builders were knocking down walls and the dust was making me irritable.
Later that morning, what I decided on the spot was pig flu took hold. I felt aches in my neck, fireworks in my jaw and an overwhelming excess of self-pity. Which, obviously, I shared.
"Poor you," my girlfriend said. "Would you like some tea?"
"No, thank you," I said in a small voice, pronouncing all three words separately. Ever since I was tiny, the chief effect of illness has been to make me supernaturally polite. I somehow imagine it conveys imminent, and picturesque, death.
"Perhaps just some peppermint," I whimpered.
"Have some honey in it," she said.
"No, thank you. But why honey?"
"That's what you have when you're ill."
I thought for a minute. "I think the active ingredient in the hot toddy is the whisky. And, preferably, codeine."
"Have some whisky then," she said. This was a turn-up. I thought about it. It was 11am. That might be pushing my luck.
"No," I said. "Thank you."
"I'm sorry I'm ill," I added, nauseatingly.
• I wandered into the wreckage of the front room and looked out of the window. So you can now ring up Boris and ask him to plant a tree outside your house, can you? I had a happy vision of a yellow mop in a blue suit bobbing sweatily up and down with a spade.
That's what I call a policy. It will be good for London, good for the environment, and will keep Boris out of trouble to boot.
• How can I have pig flu? I thought. I've barely left the house for two weeks. My Oyster card has dust on it. My SHOES have dust on them. I'm practically quarantined. Is it possible that there's a new strain affecting housebound freelance writers?
First that filled me with fear. Then hope. I'm relatively young and healthy. Others in my position less so. Perhaps it will kill off the competition.
Feeling much better, I resolved to leave the house. I went to see X-Men Origins: Wolverine, starring the startlingly Wolvie-looking Hugh Jackman, pictured.
I went on my own, on the grounds that a) its hero's mutant healing factor might rub off on me, b) my girlfriend refused to come with me and c) I have the mental age of a 12-year-old.
Obviously, I loved it.
