I blame my wife.  Or daughter.  I stay here at home, safe, sheltered while they’re both out in the world, ‘interacting’ with people – people with germs.  What am I to do?  I’ve tried putting one of those anti-bacterial gel dispenser things inside the front door, like in the hospitals.  They won’t use it. “Auwwww, it dries my hands out“, she bleats.  Dry hands?  This is my health we’re talking about.  I’ve tried total enclosure in a rubber outfit and, while oddly pleasurable, it’s not really practical for day-to-day wear – gets a bit sweaty.  I’ve tried wiping my family down with alcohol wipes before I have any physical contact but apparently that’s wrong too.  I can’t win.

At this stage, I’m strongly considering closing myself off here in my attic.  I’ll only talk to them through the door and will eat only what I can forage through the skylights.  I will remain naked.  Clothes are where germs hide.  As long as I bring a supply of bottles and chocolate wrappers I should be ok for the storage and cataloguing of my urine and faeces.  I will not sleep.  Sleep is when the germs get you.  When your guard’s down.  Bleary-eyed, I will ceaselessly read the works of Perez Hilton and chuckle heartedly at LOLCats and when exhaustion threatens, I will curl up, foetal, in the corner and repeatedly jab my thighs with a mechanical pencil while singing The Streets Of London in a tuneless monotone.

And I will be safe.