Seasonal illness has invaded my home. It has gradually infiltrated the ranks of those under my care, leaving in its wake a platoon of snot zombies.

You can hear them sniffling and snorking, blowing and groaning, mouth breathing, snot whistling, all through the house. They stand and everything about them seems to be struggling with gravity: heads loose on necks, shoulders drooping, mouths slack, slightly swaying and shivering. Blood shot eyes look at me emploringly, ‘Please let this face sloshing, sufficating misery go away’. Time, rest, lots of liquids is not what they want to hear.  Boxes of tissues, bottles of decongestants, steaming mugs of tea accessorize the surfaces of our living space.  I am the last one standing.  Maybe I have dodged this zombifying illness, or it is lurking, waiting to take me down.  Hopefully, if that is the case, someone has recovered enough to ferry me tea while I bury myself in snot filled misery.