The Diary of an Antibody
I write this in deference to the great work of 1892, "The Diary of a Nobody" by George and Weedon Grossmith. I do not suppose to do so through any desire of competition, or indeed mimicry, but simply because that work has, through its unashamed honesty and style of delivery, inspired me to speak out, reveal myself and, in some forlorn hope, as an antibody, to assist others.
In the spirit of accuracy I should begin by explaining that this is not, in fact, day one, but more like day TWENTY-one. This is due, entirely, to the thoughtless behaviour of my 'Creator', as he expects to be referred (although I prefer the epithet, 'The Buffoon'), being so idiotic as to leave it until only now to call upon my services.
It is, therefore, probably beholden upon me to illuminate the darkness that is the lost three weeks before this diary begins.
My aforementioned Creator, one D. Richey of this parish (The Buffoon), following a spate of behaviour definitely not befitting his age or station in life (although, to describe him as having a 'station' in life would be misleading. He is more a man with a 'rusty siding') somewhat foolishly ignored a wound obtained by his left foot.
The consequence of this, combined with his subsequent juvenile behaviour, resulted in the wound becoming a welcoming door to the most unsavoury collection of clientele, two of the most thuggish of which pushed their way in and made themselves at home!
I tried to tell The Buffoon and, by the powers invested in me as a member of the Immune System team, attempted to have the doors closed and bolted. But no, he knew best! "That wouldn't be Rock 'n Roll", he would doubtless say - whatever that even means!
Having gained entry, at first these pathogenic hooligans sat quietly and watched the world go by, but with time (something The Buffoon donated willingly), they began to plot and plan, recruiting other cells and organs to join their wicked scheme of destruction.
Their evil empire spread and The Buffoon began to notice.
Eventually, The Buffoon consulted a physician who, following the delivery of a firm chastisement, administered medication with the intention of ejecting the two now strong 'infections' (as they are known). This appears to be working as they were last seen packing up their somewhat grubby suitcases and heading for the exit with heads held low.
A successful ending one might think? Well yes, in some minds that might be the case; however, in mine, an antibody, whose reason for existence is to prevent this sort of nonsense from happening in the first place and who was both overlooked and over-ridden by nothing short of hubris, there is a smug enjoyment of the fact that the medication given to him has not agreed with other members of his body's community - nor, indeed, and especially, with other medication on which he has recently been depending. The result being that he feels extremely awful from, what I believe are known as 'side-effects', and is extremely sorry for himself.
Forgive me for being unable to hide my joy and satisfaction at this!
Being an antibody, I'm one of trillions. And yet in his semi-delirious state he has decided to name us all!
Apparently, I am Derek.
His negative reactions are getting worse and he feels noticeably worse. There is much sleeping and his delirious ramblings are increasing in ever more bizarre directions.
Today he believed he was a pencil.
For legal and moral reasons, today has not been recorded.
He suddenly decided to go out. This was against the advice of myself and the entirety of his immune system, except for a phagocyte called Kenneth, who thought it might be amusing to see if he remembered to dress first. He didn't. Kenneth has been unbearably smug all evening.
The Buffoon has come to the end of his course of medication and feels considerably improved, though most delicate.
I've a terrible feeling he is going to insist on documenting the last few days in some way or another. Oh, I do hope not...