THE worst thing about coming down with the lurgy at this crucial point in a General Election campaign is that you really start to doubt what you’re seeing and hearing. You shuffle to the kitchen for a honey and lemon tea and when you come back they’re telling you people dressed as bees have glued themselves to Jo Swinson’s battle bus. You recover from a coughing fit to discover that Princess Anne’s approval rating is 10 times higher than that of anyone bidding to become Prime Minister.

After a particularly violent sneeze on Wednesday afternoon, I opened my eyes and there was a rosy-cheeked Miles Briggs MSP opening a giant advent calendar, wearing a reindeer jumper. There were only two doors, despite it being eight days until the election. What does this all mean? Are you reading this on Christmas Day? Did the Scottish Tories move it forward? I haven’t even written my cards yet. I need to somehow tactically vote against this. Help!

But there was no time to dwell on that because news was breaking that Swinson was negotiating with the bees. And it didn’t seem to be going well at all.

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Here she was thinking her biggest challenge of the day would be Andrew Neil bringing up her shameful voting record as part of the coalition government, instead she found herself trying to defend her party’s environmental policies while being swarmed by angry insects, with only “Liberal Democrats: Working for You” placards to protect her from their stinging retorts.

Extinction Rebellion were observing their 12 days of crisis, as if I wasn’t already confused enough about dates, and this somehow explained the bees. It was day four of the campaign – sorry, the rebellion – and yet there was no sign of turtle doves, French hens or indeed birds of any species. Worse still, the British pear harvest has been left to rot due to a lack of migrant workers from the EU. So what’s left for my true love to send to me? If it’s going to be some kind of vegan partridge could I please have a gift voucher instead?

The National:

As I pumped anaesthetic spray onto the back of my throat, it suddenly dawned on me: am I simply sick of this election campaign? Am I sick to the back tonsils of lies and smears and evasive politicians responding to yes/no questions from journalists with an ill-mannered “Look...”?

What do they mean, “look”?

We’re already looking right at them, in high definition. We can see every wrinkle and every open pore. In fact, we’re looking very carefully to make sure their noses don’t start to twitch and elongate as they speak. You know, like in the story of Pinochee, Pinoki, Pinochy ... oh, I give up. Does anyone have any paracetamol?

Given my symptoms, and my lifestyle of heavy news consumption (20 retweets a day, though I’m trying to cut down), would Boris Johnson consider it an abuse of the system if I called NHS 24? After all, I’m pretty certain the nurse is likely to prescribe lying down in a dark room until December 13.

The call and response of coughing and spluttering in the office is surely a clue. What do all of us infected souls have in common? Exposure to viral content. Repeated injections of soundbites. Traumatic memories of Willie Rennie’s toe-curling performance in the STV leaders’ debate (please let us vow never to speak of this again).

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In search of respite, I prescribed myself bed rest, hot toddies and some undemanding light entertainment. A special bonus edition of Scot Squad seemed the perfect choice. What would PCs Fletcher and McLaren be up to this week? Chasing a shoplifter dressed as a snowman, perhaps? Grappling with bams tanked up on eggnog from their Christmas parties?

Unfortunately not. Instead, I was confronted with Chief Commissioner Cameron Miekelson interrogating SNP leader Nicola Sturgeon and the three Scottish branch managers. Was this a fever dream?

The revelations came so thick and fast I didn’t have time to reach for the remote control.

Surely it can’t be true that Scottish Tory leader Jackson Carlaw has never been to Wales? I swear I heard this admission from his own mouth, shortly after Willie Rennie disclosed that his former pet cat has made a unilateral declaration of independence, returning to his former home only to stage dirty protests in the garden. Was this a political metaphor? Who is feeding Pussy Rennie? Nicola Sturgeon neither confirmed nor denied involvement in this murky situation, disclosing only that she is scared of dogs. Hmm.

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I’ve never seen Richard Leonard so relaxed as when he merrily participated in a game of “Bam or No Bam?”, but unfortunately thanks to his Yorkshire lilt it sounded as if he was declaring the current Prime Minister a “balm”, thereby conveying quite the opposite sentiment to what was intended. Oh well – at least I got a reminder to replenish my stocks of Vicks VapoRub.

If only somehow real life could replicate that time I binge-watched The Crown during a bout of flu and managed to sleep through one Prime Minister’s entire term of office.

If you need me on election night I’ll be on the sofa, covered in blankets and hot water bottles, counting sheep instead of marginal constituencies and dreaming of a politician-free Christmas. Wake me up when it’s all over.