Despite publishing it later on, yesterday's blog post was actually written early in the morning. Which is just as well, because by the evening the only thing I was capable of writing was my last will and testament.

One thing I didn't mention on Sunday was that I'd paid another visit to Flu Camp on Saturday night to drop off some more shopping for Lisa's Mum. And it appears it was one visit too many. I noticed on Sunday that I was getting a bit of a sore throat, but it was only slight, so I ignored it on the grounds that I've only just finished an eight-week cold, couldn't possibly be getting something else already, and that with Lisa and Amelie now Catholics, I should be protected from any further troubles by St Blaise, the patron saint of sore throats.

Unfortunately, when I woke up yesterday morning I could barely swallow. The top of my throat was incredibly sore, but it wasn't affecting my vocal cords, so when I received a phone call at 6:35am asking if I could cover a clinic at Lewes Hospital, I was able to say yes in a crystal clear voice.

I was ok for most of the morning, but by lunchtime had developed a headache and the kind of shiver that most of my patients experience when they realise they've got me again this year. I stopped the rot with some paracetamol, but by mid afternoon was going downhill again, and when I finally reached the end of my clinic, I felt like going straight to Minor Injuries. In fact I was genuinely tempted, as I wasn't sure I felt fit to drive home.

In the end I drove straight to Asda for some emergency medication. The lady at the pharmacy sold me some Tyrozets, which is pretty much the only way to get antibiotics over the counter without catching chlamydia first, and I added to that some painkillers and cough medicine, plus a jar of Manuka honey and a Jif lemon.

I arrived home at 5:40pm and promptly burst into tears. Everything hurt, from the top of my head to my pretty little toes, and I understood what Lisa's Mum had meant when she told me she felt "bloody awful".

What really annoys me is that I've had the flu jab at work for the past couple of years and been fine, but I haven't had it this winter. Every single day when the Occupational Health department were holding flu clinics, I was doing a clinic of my own outside of Brighton. I didn't think it was important enough to rearrange all the work rotas, and assumed it wouldn't be the end of the world if I missed having the jab this year. Which is ironic, because by 7pm last night, it certainly felt like the end of the world. I haven't felt that ill since the Great Festive Plague of 2009.

The upshot of that is that we took unprecedented action. I felt so ill, so unable to cope with two children, and so scared of passing it on to them, that I decided to evacuate immediately. I was too unwell to drive, so my Mum came and picked me up, transported me straight to St Leonards, and quarantined me in her spare bedroom. My parents have both had the flu jab, so (touch wood) they should be fine.

I slept for twelve hours last night, woken only by horrendous sweats which left the double bed soaked, and forced me to change sides twice. From what I've read, that's a good sign, and is the body trying to expel the virus, but at the time it felt more like going to bed last Wednesday night.

So that's where I am now: dosed up to my eyeballs in medication, and sitting in a slightly damp bed in St Leonards while Lisa copes with the children alone. She'll be feeling rougher than me by the end of the day. On the plus side, not only is my appetite down, but it's too painful to swallow, so by the time we see each other again, she'll have the slim, healthy husband she's always dreamt of.