Victory

I`ve totally triumphed over the typhoon. In case anyone was wondering if it`s possible to win against God and any of his Acts: it is. And I have just proved it.

It`s still coming. It is definitely still coming. The wind has picked up, it`s freezing, the corridors at school are making whistling noises, and animals are going bonkers: tweeting and gathering and hiding and getting over-excited and/or anxious about their potential doom (do typhoons kill birds? The Miyazakian birds seem to think so). I haven`t started stockpiling marshmallows yet, but I`ll do that as soon as I get home. I certainly don`t want to be put in a situation where I have no marshmallows left when the wind hits.

However, I`m also a little otherwise occupied because of the following, oft-repeated conversation:

"How are you?"
"I`m fine," reply 36 little voices at once.
"Fine is not an answer I`m interested in. Who`s hungry?"
Fifteen hands go up.
"Who`s happy?"
Two hands go up.
"Who`s sleepy?"
28 hands go up.
"Who`s great?"
One optimistic hand goes up.
"And who`s sick?"
36 hands go up.

And then, in case they haven`t communicated properly, the teeny tiny ones climb on to my lap, wait for me to say something, and then cough in my open mouth. Or wipe their noses on my shoulder or hand. Or - inexplicably - take something off their lip and try and stick it on mine. Or lick my nose. Or lick their own hand and then wipe my face and then lick their hand again. Or kiss me straight on the mouth. Or roll a piece of rice between their fingers and then try and make me eat it. (At least, I hope it`s rice.)

I am therefore - along with most of the Elementary school teaching staff, and all of Kindergarten - sick. Nose running, throat burning, unable to speak properly. Which, I`m beginning to realise, is an occupational hazard, because nobody in the entire world can confront 500 slightly different flu germs a week and remain able to breathe at night and not wake up dreaming that you`re buried in sand. I can pour multi-vitamins down my throat with all the enthusiasm I can muster, but there isn`t a single letter of the alphabet that can protect me from that.

So I win, and the typhoon loses. It can blow as hard as it likes - it can cancel every single plan I`ve made for the next three days, and it can stop me having dinner with my friends - because I can`t go anyway. I`ll be scowling at inanimate objects in my bedroom regardless of what the weather does: I`ll be wrapped up in a blanket eating KitKats no matter how violent God wants to get or not get. It`s up to him. It doesn`t make the slightest bit of difference to me anymore. It can`t touch me.

Thus my flu has given two fingers up to the typhoon, and I am victorious. Snotty, growly, scowly and victorious.

And no matter how sick I get, isn`t that all that really matters?