Whenever I’m unwell all I can think about is how horribly uncomfortable and boring it must of been to be ill for most of history.

I’m in a nicely warmed home with constant access to drink, food, painkillers, and the excellent TV documentary “The Vietnam War”.

And it’s still awful.

But at least I’m not lying on a sagging, bug-filled straw mattress in a drafty London house in 1643, while rats and smoke steadily seep through the warped wooden walls.

At least I have a bathroom a few yards away, instead of a reeking chamber pot that’s overflowing.

At least I have my phone, instead of my only entertainment being church bells and my wife reading me the Bible.

At least I have ibuprofen and codeine, instead of a delightful mixture of dried toad and mercury.

At least I’m taking in plenty of fluids, instead of having bloodletting to ‘balance my humors’.

It’s not so bad really.