I hear it on the top deck of the bus, the Sniff of Doom. Not the sniff of disgust at someone’s repulsive breakfast smoothie, not the tedious sniff of hayfever, not the delicate sniff of someone with a slightly irritated nose. The Sniff of Doom, of someone who has a streaming cold and won’t blow their nose. And I know. They are wiping it on their hand. Their hands are all over the handles and the stair rails. They are circling, these plague carriers. There were two of them in a meeting today, sniffing. Soon there will be more. And it will spread, felling all in its path. Did I think that because Freshers’ Flu is late this year that it would not come? That there was the possibility of escape? There is no escape.