Paranoinka

It's here.

A sniff or cough is no longer a snuffle. It's swine flu. No 'ifs' or 'buts'. Cough and the person next to you stiffens in horror. Of course, if a mask is being worn, the brow drops slightly in relief that says, "Hey, I might look silly, but I'll still be around to watch the next episode of 'Desperate Housewives'".

One damp Monday morning, the smallest noted with concern that he had two symptoms of swine flu, drawing the conclusion that he should stay home. I suggested that if unless he could prove he'd snogged a hog, he was going to school.

Simply paranoia? If we're sneezing on the precipice of a viral disaster, I'd not like it be me to say that it's all a storm in a media tea-cup. Michael Jackson took over the front pages for a while, and he wasn't linked to any pig, well not adult ones anyway. Perhaps, looking at the way the King of Pop has been exploited since moon walking off his mortal coil, this flu could be deemed devine retribution for the western masses who no longer forage for food instead choosing to masticate on infamous misfortunates.

Paranoia comes in waves, often fuelled by slow news days. We ride them. Y2K blustered through and Bird Flu offered another chance to wear masks but didn't deliver the full load of dread. I've only recently started releasing baked beans from their rusty Y2K-kit entombment.

The emergency kit. It's a great idea. But where will you be when the emergency strikes? I'd suggest that if you're trying to wrestle a bar of chocolate from the office snack bar machine at the 'strike time' you're too far from your emergency kit for it to be much use. It could be buried under the rubble. Or the baked beans may be so out-of-date that if you remembered to replace the can opener you borrowed from the kit in 2005 they could kill you through orange botulism.

It's bedtime. Fingers crossed the bed bugs won't bite... and if they do...