I. It struck me, like never before, somewhere in the sixth or sixtieth hour of my flu-induced confinement (but probably the sixtieth, because I believe in the first throes I was delerious) that the only thing more unforgivably banal than composing, in my head, a 140-character remark about my suffering (vile suffering; in the grand scheme of possibility, gentle suffering) would be sharing the remark with an audience of hundreds: a handful my closest friends; a further handful of colleagues and professional contacts; dozens of brands and spambots.
I was suffering, to be sure, not just from ‘flu but from a lack of witnesses. Does a sweaty four-day battle with a virus really happen if you live alone and permit no one to see you because no one is obligated (by blood relationship, or by romance), and because although you’ve lost your sense of smell you have an inkling that it is a blessing? What a tedious urge, I thought, as I pressed ‘delete’. So many friends have sent kind messages, offers to deliver orange juice, condolences. And yet. I am not just ill. I am banal.
II. I re-read the AG Sulzberger piece on vegetarianism, the one in which he complains, among other things, of midwesterners being forced to cook their own food because barbecue restaurants don’t cater to their needs. A little light background, confirming his position as heir to the New York Times fortune, but also his unexpectedly mature age.
I shared the piece with my American friend at work, with whom sharing things about America that make us sigh and roll our eyes with expat American world-weariness is a frequent and enjoyable past time. I suppose it is a form of fellowship roughly equivalent to when British people talk about the weather.
I mean, he is our age, I say about AG Sulzberger. It’s like writing a letter home to your mum to say that you don’t like the food. When you’re 30! Except it’s like writing a letter to the nation! You would not do that. My American friend shakes his head in disgust and I laugh and laugh and I say what is wrong with our nation? and then I am crying as well as laughing, both profusely. Which is, perhaps, because I have taken a lot of cold medicine over the last week. But perhaps it is also a small part of my self in throes of grief.
You are wrong with our nation, it weeps. You are laughing at this picky, privileged eater, Jean, but if you were the heir to the New York Times fortune would you not be writing articles about how sad it is to have the flu when you are far from home and no one is watching?
