The Queen Bee is Guarded by her Minions.

I was just caught lying on the couch in my cow print PJs at 2 o’clock in the afternoon by the pool guy. I’m sure he’s seen it all before… he is a pool guy after all; wink, wink.

The mucous membranes lining my nose have finally given up trying to rid my body of the insidious virus contaminating it. After releasing more fluid than runs over Niagara Falls in the wet season they have at last ceased their deluge.

This is good, because I don’t think there is any remaining skin around my nostrils. It’s all been stripped away by a zillion sandpaper like tissues leaving raw patches of tenderised sirloin instead.

I’m much better today. The violent shivering, never-ending sneezing, weird pains in my kidneys and soapy feeling in my throat seem to have dissipated.

I can’t taste a thing… but I’m craving Scotch Finger biscuits dipped in a milky tea with three sugars. Sook food.

I attempted to take a nap yesterday but every time I’d deliriously nod off, this guy …

                                Borat the German Shepherd

would begin barking like Rin Tin Tin, setting off the other three mongrels in a chorus of yap-bloody-yapping.

While I lay wafting in and out of consciousness, Celine and Pablo sat on a high perch like worker bees diligently guarding the queen bee.

The trouble was, every time a car drove past Borat would bark and Pablo, in his excitement would clumsily jump off the back of the couch straight on top of the enlarged and tender spleen housed in my abdomen.

Not the nicest way to be awoken from a feverish slumber.

I must have drifted off for at least ten minutes because at one stage I awoke to discover Pablo had unravelled an entire toilet roll. He had also shredded the eighty-seven used and damp tissues sitting on the coffee table beside where I lay in my semi-coma.

There were bits of soggy tissue from one corner of the house to the other.

I really hope the vicious little b#stard catches my cold.