I’ve been thinking, deliberately and with care, if I could have possibly infected anyone. I’m usually a rather indiscriminate kisser – not at work. There’s the old proverb about shitting and eating, and it still holds water.

But personally . . . no. I don’t think I infected anyone. I wasn’t sneezy. I wash my hands in the appropriate manner. I think I’m in the clear.

Oh no. There was the Frappucino; my friend John. The results hadn’t come back yet and I had no reason to suspect mono. I was waving it around like a delicacy, offering it to him, not desiring in the least to share it but – he’s a germ freak, never shares drinks, Purells constantly, bodily fluids scare him, etc. – I know what he thinks of my mouth. He ensures I don’t get close enough to breathe on him (if you’re wondering about redeeming qualities: yes, in spades). But that day, for some mysterious reason, he just grabbed it and drank. I stopped all my dancing about in shock. “Tastes like you,” he said, cool as a cucumber.

Oh no.


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