I came back from FOWD London feeling, shall we say, less than fabulous. It took a good 48 hours for me to realise that the slightly sick feeling parked in my abdomen was probably not just post-presentation nerves – though to be fair the hacking, aching and fever were also big tip-offs.

Having just returned from the international travel capital of Europe courtesy of a viral petri dish recirculating air at 30,000 feet, there was comedy aplenty in our house about H1N1 Influenza. In fact, early that week I had a coughing fit at the corner shop and joked to my husband that there was no more deserving recipient of my viral load than the complete and utter cow who runs our local store.

Buying from this shop is not like retail as most humans understand it. Every item purchased is treated like you are personally pulling food directly from the mouths of Ethiopian children, cash be dammed. Packets of tea, milk and bread are snatched from your hand and only given back grudgingly. Every biscuit I leave with is a moral victory.

Anyway, this all became much less amusing when it started to look like I really might have the charmingly named Swine Flu. The were so many creased brows and concerned tuts that I began to wonder if London had been relocated to a suburb of Mexico City and I had merely missed the good weather. In my more fervish moments, I dreamed it had, and apparently began telling people about elborate plans to open a summer resort in Islington.

It’s now almost two weeks later, though, and my career as a weapon of mass bio-terrorism appears to be drawing to a close.  I am much better, and have a new found appreciation for the ability to breathe and the wonders of being able stand up for a whole 10 minutes. I can also stay awake for an entire three hours at a stretch. And to top it all off,  I officially do not have swine flu.

The bad news is, neither does the woman from the corner shop.