I've managed, until now, to get through the whole winter without having the flu or even a proper cold, despite the fact that family, friends and work colleagues have been suffering from some real stinkers.
And what happens the day before the big Poetry Nottingham reading? My throat starts feeling like someone sandpapered it in the night, and I can only speak like the love child of Joe Cocker and Bonnie Tyler. Without the Swansea accent, obviously. And the big hair.
At this rate, the audience will have to get pretty close to hear anything. I'm hoping that not speaking for the next 20-odd hours will do the trick.