Last week's Tales dealt with the colds, coughs and ankle-deep phlegm currently blighting i's newsroom and, to prove a point, I'm writing this from my sick bed, my words dictated to my personal secretary.
Sick as I am, though, at least I have not fallen victim to what Professor Ian Goodfellow of Cambridge University described as "the Ferrari of the virus world": Norovirus, the winter vomiting bug. Even though I am not Catholic, I admit to crossing myself at the mere mention of the name of that devilish ailment. You see, two years ago I caught it. And fun it was not.
I had just checked into my Glasgow hotel when I began to feel ill, but assumed this was down to a motorway breakfast on the journey from London. However, it soon became apparent that no mere sausage could be to blame.
I thus spent three days in a universe of gastro-intestinal madness without limits in its scale and, well, stench. I can't even begin to list the details without them reopening the Leveson inquiry and throwing me in journalism jail for being too lavatorial.
Suffice to say the management had to bring in a priest after I left, such was the taint I left on the very soul of the room and, frankly, on my mattress.
So, if any of you are currently chained to the bonnet of this Ferrari of bugs as it roars through Vomit Town, I send you my best wishes. And 10 Hail Marys…