I've not been feeling too clever lately. What's wrong with me? How long have you got?

There’s not a squirrel to be seen in Regent’s Park. Valerie the dog is most disappointed, but as I explained to her, it’s the dead of winter, cold and miserable, and any animal with any sense is hibernating, sleeping blissfully through these cruel months until there’s a whiff of spring in the air. It’s nature’s way of protecting God’s more delicate creatures from things like winter vomiting – all the rage among Homo sapiens at the moment. It seems this is no consolation to Valerie, who gazes at the silent trees with an expression not unlike Hillary Clinton perusing the latest opinion polls. Poor Hillary. However can she compete against someone as gorgeous as Barack Obama? It’s like pitching Maggie Thatcher against Lewis Hamilton. The voting public are drawn to the perfect teeth and dusky hue. We can’t help ourselves.

Lots of famous actors have occupied my dressing room at the Lyric Theatre – Noël Coward and Ian McKellen among them. It’s hard to pick a favourite, but if pushed I’d plump for Leonard Rossiter. In fact he died in that very room, during a run of Loot in 1984. When I got home last night I googled him to find out the facts. It seems Leonard had mild chest pains for a week before, but following some tests he declared himself “as fit as a fiddle”. On 5 October, he managed his first two scenes but failed to appear for his third. The cast rushed to his dressing room and Gemma Craven, no less, felt his pulse. “He’s dead!” she declared.

I mention all this because I’ve not been feeling too clever myself lately. What’s wrong with me? How long have you got? I’ve got the flu, a cold, a cough, toothache, a bad back, a migraine and a shooting sensation down my right leg. Not to mention dry skin, intimate itching, an ingrowing toenail, and, yes, mild chest pains. Of course, I’ve come to the conclusion that this is God’s way of telling me to prepare for the worst, and I don’t mean another series of Top Gear.

Then, to top it all, a glance at my diary told me I had an appointment at the dentist this morning. “I believe in pain-free root canal treatment,” she told me, reassuringly, before inserting a small pin-like probe that caused me to leap to the ceiling.

Given the circumstances, you’d think work would be out of the question. But it’s not. I’ve heard seasoned theatricals over the years talk of “Doctor Theatre” – a curious phenomenon whereby however ill you feel offstage, the moment you go on all signs and symptoms melt away. But it turns out to be true. I lie in bed all afternoon moaning and groaning, but as long as I can drag myself to the theatre and put the slap on, the symptoms will disappear. For those two and a half hours my nose doesn’t run, I don’t cough or itch and my teeth, legs, back, head and chest stop aching. My time onstage is bliss for me, if not the audience.

Mind you, I think it’s their fault in the first place. I have been exposed to the public on a nightly basis for some months now. I don’t get the impression they’re particularly fussy about matters of personal hygiene, and they will keep breathing in my direction. The only wonder is that I don’t have foot-and-mouth or bluetongue to add to my collection. If only they’d stay away.

I take some comfort from the fact that I’m not alone. January is the season to be poorly. Anyone who is anyone has a tale to tell of one nasty bug or another. And onstage during Cabaret, we all have to raise our voices as the coughs and splutters from the paying punters threaten to drown out the more poignant moments. This is no time for subtlety. If I had my way, they’d all be hosed down with bleach in the foyer and vacuum-packed before the curtain goes up.

In my next life I’m going to be a squirrel.

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