Forgive me if little of what I write this week makes sense. I seem to have a flu-like virus and it's making me a tad delirious.

Just a minute, the doorbell is ringing. It might be Robbie Williams wanting his slippers back ...

Nope, my mistake. It was an ex-serviceman trying to sell me felt-tip pens. I told him I never vote on a Tuesday.

Anyway, as I was saying. I have a touch of illness.

Sensibly, I should be spending a few days in bed enjoying a slow and steady recovery. But life is not like that any more.

I've dragged myself into work because I have a misguided belief that I'm indispensable. And I've struggled to keep up with domestic duties because I can't abide seeing the washing pile up.

Besides, our three-year-old, Eve, doesn't like hearing me say I'm feeling unwell.

As soon as I reveal a symptom, she pipes up with: "But I've got a headache/blocked nose/irrational fear of everything purple too."

It hasn't helped that my husband is also poorly. In fact, he has come down with something worse than me.

I'd only been coughing and sneezing for a few hours and was just beginning to attract his sympathy when he came over all shivery and had to creep under the duvet.

By the evening we'd had to call the emergency doctor and get him a prescription for antibiotics.

The reason for both of us falling ill probably has a lot to do with our recent house move.

We've both had adrenaline overloads for the past two weeks to see us through the necessary changes and adaptations.

Now that most of the boxes have been unpacked, our immune systems seem to have collapsed and have made us vulnerable to whatever nasties are out there.

My husband has something akin to the bubonic plague. I think I might have swine fever.

The difference between us, however, is that my husband will stay under the duvet until his world starts to look normal again, whereas I'm moving about in a kind of twilight state, not understanding half of what's going on around me.

For instance, the other day I was fiddling around with the timer on our newly-inherited cooker and then couldn't get the oven to switch on.

Having already had a battle with our boiler (we're now on good terms), I couldn't face going through the same thing with the cooker. I kept turning the dials, cursed it a bit and even asked Eve if she could figure it out.

I was about to abandon my plans for a baked potato and opt for a takeaway pizza, when my friend Philippa called round.

Through the clear thinking of someone in good health, she got the oven to work. In my feverish state, I think I was a bit overemotional in displaying my gratitude.

"You are wonderful," I believe I began.

"What a brilliant mind you have. Just like that, you sorted it out. It was completely beyond me. Why don't you stay for a spot of supper? The Queen is due any minute."

"Why don't you take two paracetamol and have an early night," she gently advised.

Normal service will be resumed as soon as possible.