A PLAGUE has hit our office. The symptoms are along the lines of: a cough, a headache, vague feelings of nausea and the sensation of a small but vicious imp stamping on your neocortex.

First the germs took down Andrew, then Rachel. Next Hannah was gripped by them, and now me.

Soon, I imagine we will be forced to cut off The Westmorland Gazette team from the rest of society, like Eyam village in 1665.

That Derbyshire community, which was infected by a flea-based deadly disease, opted to isolate itself from nearby towns. In 14 months, the plague was thought to have killed 260 villagers out of a population of only 350.

In order to avoid becoming a modern day victim, my desk now boasts almost every health-related product in the North West. I’ve got echinacae tea, Lucozade Revive, lemon-grass nasal spray and coconut water.

I’ve had lemon and honey tea, I’ve also tried putting a Berrocca tablet in hot water; which exploded across the room. It was worth a try.

Fortunately, I have never seriously worried I was dying – except once when I was 13.

I was crippled by pain. Doctors were confused and I was terrified. I should add at this point that I was not pregnant.

My parents took me to Derby, for one operation, and then London, for specialist treatment, the explanation of which I will save for the novel.

I wondered if I would ever get out of that hospital ward. Maybe this was it for me – rest in peace, do not pass go.

I remember the day when the final anaesthetic had cleared, and I was allowed to go home. It remains one of my most vivid memories.

The car park air was so cold. The traffic was so loud. The flapjack my dad had bought me - with a little daffodil logo on the front – tasted so good. The REM New Adventures in Hi-Fi album my friend Richard had lent to me sounded like nothing I had ever heard before.

I escaped, feeling like everything was new. This thought makes me feel better than any cold remedy ever could.