I have been as sick as a dog for two days now.

The first sign that something was wrong came on Saturday morning. Upon waking, my ears were greeted by what appeared to be the dawn call of some exotic bird. Soon thereafter, I realised this to be the whistling sound caused by my wheezing.

It is now Monday and I am on an amazing cocktail of drugs:

• Antiobiotics: Klacid (one tablet twice a day); and
• Asthma Medication: Atrovent (1 unit dose vial thrice a day), Ventolin (1 unit dose vial thrice a day), Seretide (two puffs twice a day), Prednisolone (two tablets once a day).

It goes without saying that I am not doing too well. Should there be no improvement in my health by Thursday, it is a given that I will be hospitalised. Please understand that I am not feeling sorry for myself. I just wish there was someone to look after me ...

As a child, I was utterly stupefied by the love, affection and care my friends' parents bestowed upon their children in times of ill health. My parents showed no such 'paternal instincts'. At most, I would be dropped off near a medical centre and given loose change so as to facilitate my journey home by public transport. Moreover, my coughs, sneezes and sniffles were greeted with the utmost contempt, as if I had just made the mistake of breaking wind loudly during the peak point of a funeral service (e.g. lowering of coffin into the ground).

In light of the above observations, it beggars belief that I am not afflicted with a deep seated nurse fetish. Until today, I had not once entertained any such fantasy. This is fast starting to change though. As I lie in bed, a nebuliser mask affixed to my face, I realise that nothing would please me more than having a Mila Jovovich look-alike nurse pressing her warm cheek against my forehead to check for signs of a temperature. Of course, should she wish to provide me with a sponge bath, I would not be complaining in the slightest.

Reality is a far cry from fantasy and I know full and well that the above ruminations will not hold true any time soon. Having a nurse by my side, attractive or otherwise, will probably mean that I have taken a turn for the worse.

This whole episode has made me realise how much of a workaholic I have become in recent years. Despite only blowing 250 into a peak flow meter (trust me on this, it's a bad sign), I seriously considered dropping into work to attend a series of meetings. I mentioned this possibility to my treating physician and she looked at me as if I had the intelligence of a Big Brother housemate. Responding to her look of disbelief, I mentioned that I was a lawyer and her features softened. 'Oh', she replied ... 'I guess that explains your concern.'.

What I failed to mention was that I am a government lawyer. The world is not going to fall apart should I fail to show up for work for a day, or two weeks for that matter. Indeed, if the rumours surrounding public service employment are true, I can only be fired for: (a) having killed someone; or (b) having taken a dump in the Minister's shoe. In my life, opportunities to engage in either one of these activities are few and far between.

I am bored out of my mind sitting at home. Still, there is a perverse pleasure to be had in being stricken by illness:- laying in bed watching television, reading novels, sipping on honey and lemon drinks, etc. There is a perception that the world expects nothing from me aside from a timely recovery. I could not be more wrong. Work still calls up every few hours, asking for a legal opinion on the most minor of matters or enquiring about the whereabouts of a file which is seated in plain view on my desk. In addition, I know I can look forward to receiving the minutes of meetings which have no bearing on my work whatsoever. Somewhat perversely, certain colleagues of mine believe that sending work-related material to sick brethren is akin to a sign of affection. It means that they are thinking of you, that you have not left their thoughts, and that they realise just how important your contribution is to the workplace.

Well, f*** you.

I am SICK, ok? My primary concern right now is regularising my breathing, not briefs, memorandums, minutes, files etc. If you are in fact concerned about my well-being, bring me some chicken soup, rent a few DVDs on my behalf (esp those featuring Mila Jovovich), buy me an interesting novel. If you're so f*cking hell-bent on sending my paperwork, send me a bleeding 'Get Well' card. We work for one of the largest APS agencies around dude, there are over 5000 of us scattered around the world. Pass my work on to some guy who feels it's a long-standing public service tradition to leave work at 4:30pm. You know who I'm talking about, every second person who works on Levels 1-8.

Now, back to my ruminations on nurses and their warm cheeks ......