The real piece of good fortune was coming down with the flu on the eve of the angling departure, rather than during – as none of my pals would have noticed anything amiss.

Maybe they’d scratch their chin when I failed to acknowledge dinner, or didn’t protest when they divided up my dry flies among themselves. If there were any signs of life from my flaccid and feverish bedroll – they’d say, “he smelled bad before the trip, Ma’am -how was we to know he wasn’t simply funning us?”

The Bad News is I lived up to my promise, spending the last four days in a cataclysmic meltdown that has me in the same clothing, absent cigars, and strong coffee – and facing early demise as She (formerly banished as it was a guy only fishing trip) is racing to my door to put an end to my sufferings…

… with a large can of Woop-ass.

There will be no Angels of Mercy daubing my feverish cheeks on the morrow, no fluffing of too-soft pillows, no replenishing of the Sacred Baked Goods, there will only be those gals already angry – and those  speechless in fury at the state of Her house.

I’ll be Jimmy Stewart in Hitchcock’s Rear Window – helpless and struggling from my wheelchair – as (Ms.) Raymond Burr attempts to unscrew my head like a champagne cork before setting the garden hose on whatever stayed attached.