For the past few days I've been suffering, what feels like, a summer flu, symptoms ; coughing, phlegm, itching, sneezing and aching. Although the itching-sneezing component may be down to hay-fever.

I've smitten my wife, about which she is not happy.

I've been on back-shift [where you are not allowed to go off-sick unless death is a reasonable prognosis.] So I trek my way to work sweating as if the heat mattered and shiver my way home in the gloaming.

You know that feeling: where you feel that your head-box has been stuffed with cotton? Well now imagine corduroy, or perchance tweed as the stuffing substance.

I won't gross you out with the various leakages that have been occurring from my skien. Other expulsions may be assumed but are definitely denied. [In the same way that governments deny stuff that casts them in too gloomy a light.]

So I was feeling none-to-good as I stood outside watching the clouds as the taxi-knowledge people oozed past. Jimmy, the knowlege, and I shared a few words, then a guy, with a bag, who seemed out of place came through the gate. My eyes narrowed.

As ever I was wrong in my assumption, he'd passed the knowledge, he wanted to say thanks to the people who had supported him. A nice thing had happened. In my world a tutor had been thanked. The clouds still looked nice.

What I know and he, my young man, doesn't is that this is the least hard step: you might know what to do, the problem is finding who want to do this.

We don't live in a sane society.