I woke up the other day and was perplexed to find my chops/double chin looked even more swollen than usual.

To add insult to injury, my eyes appeared to swell and then exclaim ‘oh no!’ before they became engulfed by eyelid fat.

Pretty soon my throat was red raw and I was a twitching mass of chubbiness lying incapacitated on the kitchen floor.

“I think it’s glandular fever. You’re going to need some blood tests,” the on-call doctor told me. “You’ll feel better if you get up off the lino, as well.”

“John Merrick no get up off lino,” I muttered through laboured breath. “John Hurt.”

The doctor was soon on his way. I’m pretty sure he was fed up of seeing me, but hypochondria is just as serious as mono.

I still feel for the guy, but I’m sure he’ll be able to claim back for the hundreds of miles he’s put in to see our Shezza.

“So you’ve got yourself the kissing disease?” my friend laughed as she entered with some Campbell’s soup and half-eaten grapes.

“You know full well this isn’t due to kissing.” I coughed. “The only person who wants to kiss me is the dog.

“What happened to me grapes?! How am I supposed to eat them anyway? My throat won’t let anything smaller than a sunflower seed down it.”

“That’s why I’m helping you,” she smiled.

I watched, angrily, as she choked back the bruised grapes she’d bought for half price and a massive bottle of Lucozade.

I was getting jealous. I felt as though Gandalf was swinging off my tonsils and waving his staff at any food or drink I dare put near my mouth while screaming ‘you shall not pass!’

Then the kids started whining because they were hungry and all I had in the house were some Dreamies cat treats.

Things weren’t going well at this point.

My friend had taken off to get her chin waxed and I was lying on the floor handing out Dreamies to my seven-year-old.

At one point the baby crawled past dragging a huge nappy behind her like a horse with a cart and it was obvious that I needed help.

When things are strange in the neighbourhood, who you gonna call? Your bro!

He obviously didn’t want to help though.

Through the medium of text he explained quite eloquently that he ‘didn’t wanna catch it eh cos am garn out at wkend’.

But after I sent a photograph of the baby eating Dreamies he was round in a flash clutching a packet of Bourbons and some Nesquik cereal.

“John thanks you,” I whispered, half asleep with a few tea towels draped over me to keep me warm.

He made himself a cuppa and kindly left one beside me with my Mickey Mouse straw.

Then he went to see how the kiddywinks were getting on. I don’t know what happened next, probably because I was high on Lemsip, but somehow bro and I ended up switching cups.

As you can imagine, he was soon infected and I received some very angry text messages.

The doctor was good though. He even called round to check on my brother. Never mind saying that immigrants are putting stress on the NHS. The Lofthouse family is the biggest drain on public health services since 1983.