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The New Zealand Railways Magazine, Volume 6, Issue 4 (September 1, 1931.)

Fluetember

Fluetember.

Anyway, a month that can associate with Influenza should be arrested under the Summer-time Act and suppressed by the Greenwich clock-watchers. It should be called Fluetember, Septuenza, or Influember; for Influenza is the most germicidal of the seven hundred and seventy-seven trials which are staged in the cells of the human constitution. Influenza is more like bad news on a wet Monday morning than a disease; it envelops rather than develops, and resembles a sock full of wet glue, an aggravated cow-drench with the blind staggers, a frosted presentiment in kilts, or a dash for the pole without a leg to stand on.

Some diseases are fair fighters, according to the rules of Habeas Corpus and the ethics of indoor winter sports, such as Catching the Cold, Pitching the Pill, and Taking Precautions; but Influenza, as a microbe, is not a square mike nor a germ you can introduce to your friends with any feeling of confidence or pride. Some diseases you are not ashamed to introduce into any company as homely, honest-to-goodness complaints that simply get to work, do their job, and leave the premises at closing page 55 time. But Influenza hangs about the place like Uncle Willie who lost his money in the big crash of ‘98 and hasn't done any work since. A disease that is efficient and knows where to stop is not without merit. Take Measles, for instance, but don't take it if you can help it. Measles comes with a rush and a rash in the first round, socks its victim, knocks spots off him, and leaves the ring with no ill-feeling. Mumps also is a swell complaint, but seldom goes too far, although it often makes a necking-party of it.

“Gout is a merry companion for the long winter evenings.”

“Gout is a merry companion for the long winter evenings.”

Of the more sociable complaints, perhaps Gout was the most so; it is, however, now but a memory, like the Maypole and other old-fashioned methods of publicity. But in its day Gout was received only in the highest families, and if my Lord Loll failed to go giddy with Gout at least once a year he put his physician on the mat. Gout was a merry companion for the long winter evenings, and it cost money to cultivate its friendship, which explains why it has gone out of fashion. But Influenza is a sticky business, and is neither the bona fide banana nor the straight Griffin; it arrests the mental processes, puts the bracelets on the bracings, and dampens the fires of inspiration. Sung with sneezes:—

Let us moan a dull cadenza,
To the demon Influenza,
As it drips and drones and dribbles—
What's the use of quoting quibbles—
It's a water-blister busted,
Or a custard rust-encrusted,
Or a groan with whiskers on it,
Or a sad sepulchral sonnet,
Or a wart that's disappointed,
Like a joint that's come unjointed,
Or a mist that's missed its mister,
Or a blister on a blister,
Or a fatalistic flounder,
Drowned in mud that oozed around her,
Or each country's pet Depression,
In a dolorous procession;
Anything in fact that's fuzzy,
Like a mildew old and muzzy,
Or a sodden porous plaster.
Telling tales of dark disaster—
That's the Flu—or something near it,
You can sometimes even hear it,
Like a water-melon soggy,
Sort of bilgeous and boggy,
That's been dropped without renigging
From a sailing vessel's rigging,
With a noise like muffled muffins,
It's a case of all or “nuffins,”
When you dial the drear cadenza,
Sung by Uncle Influenza.