Lungs fit to burst

We never got sick in Australia, apart from one spectacular bout of gastro, (referred to as the Mount Etna Week-end) and stuffy noses each time the natives came out (trees, not people. The ones which smelt of baked potatoes. I'm still talking about the trees here).

Since Christmas I have had a cold, cystitis, a cold, gastroenteritis, a cold, bronchitis. Obviously, I wasn't getting much fun out of -itis, so have moved onto the letter "P": Pleurisy and Pneumonia.

I thought it would be the alarming mosquito which would do for me (after all, it is the state bird), but no, it'd be the weather. And, as it foolishly wasn't in the get-out clause of our pre-Minnesotan agreement, I will be forced to wear my snood and two downy jackets for the next three years.

On Thursday, I got sloppy and didn't have the requisite 2 foot of down between the car, and the school - that's what must have finished me off.

By the time I got home I had the shivers, which, quite frankly, unless you have been truly sick before just seems like a mild inconvenience.

Gamely, I talked bridgjo into making a fish-pie (which in the end remained uneaten), whilst I slumped across the kitchen table, then trembled off upstairs to bed wearing all my clothes, duvets and a dressing-gown. I can't remember, but probably in that order. An hour later I was still shivering so asked bridgjo to get the doctor out. Which they don't do here. 12 inch pizzas, yes. 6 foot handsome doctors, alas, no. Instead I got Mary Poppins on the phone who insisted I came into the Urgent care, as "a cough and shivers to me can quickly turn into pneumonia". I was still in denial, but by this time, I really fancied some lovely drugs (so much so I didn't even put in my contact lenses and do my hair).

Urgent care is a great idea - a walk-in centre where they see you immediately, with no truck about waiting times if you are feeling particularly ill, just whisked away in a wheel-chair.

I was momentarily thrown when the receptionist asked "Is this your first time at a Park Nicollette?", almost as if I had arrived at a Harvester. I wanted to ask for the vegetarian option, but even then I realised the only person to get that would be the little man who lives inside my head.

I was bustled into a little room, where over the next few hours I was x-rayed, blood-sampled, EKG'd (or possibly ECG'd - like T I sometimes get my curly cers and kicking kers mixed-up), an antibiotic drip with saline (strangely it was the saline which seemed to perk me up no end), a handful of drugs and several prescriptions.

I had one Benny Hill moment, when the nurse struggled with the right words, refused to say "You're going to feel a bit of a prick", because obviously that would be rude, but instead said "I'm going to poke you firmly now".

With the saline drip, the doctor came in and said "Do you want to go potty?". I considered it for the moment, and said "You know, I don't think I have the energy, but thanks any way....Oh, you mean the toilet?".

I was slightly worried when the doctor said "You have pneumonia, and we are sending you home", convinced that this was exactly what they did with old people.

So feeling relatively better, we went home via that very American Institution, the drive-thru Pharmacy.

Had a reasonably comfortable night, apart from throwing up the pain-killers (the little blighters refused to stay down), and creaking each time I breathed...but realised at about 2 am that they hadn't actually sent me home to die.

Since then,we have had two follow-up calls (what service!). Dr Johnson of the evening shift had said that pneumonia is actually pretty difficult to diagnose from x-rays, as it can be about two days behind the picture taken. The day shift, however, must have had the etch-a-sketch version of the pictures, gave them a good shake, and rang to confirm the diagnosis.

See, I told you we didn't need television.