“How are you feeling, Lola?” Mary asked me, smiling. “Getting better!” I chirped. Which is, you know, true and also not true. I am sure on some cellular level the frightening antibiotic I’ve been given is working; after all I have to keep it in a ‘cool dark place’ and there’s a plentitude of yellow warning labels plastered to the container so obviously it’s the good stuff.

However, on a not cellular level I feel just as crappy as before. Mostly because I have a sort of extreme shortness of breath and the sort of dry, hacking cough actors employ to portray a grim death-by-consumption.