Hogg heaven to Hogg hell

Please help me. I have been enslaved. I write to you from a small annex where I am busy preparing the next meal for my Masters, the Hogg family.

I live in a one-bedroom flat next to my lovely friend Hayley and her family. We'll call them "The Hoggs" for the sake of anonymity.

Hayley and Steve Hogg and their four children are infected with the swine flu and have gone so pale as to be virtually see-through. I scour their lounge looking for sick humans but the only clue to their whereabouts is a light grouping of freckles near blankets on couches.

Because of our close proximity, I visit them all the time, and when I say all the time, I mean it. Grandma has taken to calling me on their landline if she can't reach me at home. The Hogg- Eleven commune is usually a happy place but various illnesses have put my visiting habits out of whack. In fact, when swine flu first broke out, we discussed using my living quarters as a quarantine zone, but unless we put all necessary medication within rolling distance, their six-month old probably wouldn't cope that well on his own. And the lazy sod is still unable to change his own nappy.

As it turns out, I am the healthy one and so I remain in my germ-free annex.

Compared to their illness, I now realise that the cold I had about a week earlier must have only registered about 1.2 on their Richter scale. Nevertheless, Hayley passed a steaming bowl of curry over the fence to keep me going in my time of need, therefore I felt obliged to sustain them.

My day of maid's duties started off quite easily, with an uncomplicated pumpkin and bacon soup. This meant I had to pop into the sick house to borrow a large pot but I held my breath and de-loused in alcohol rub whilst rifling their cupboards. Soup was dutifully delivered (but then not-so-graciously demanded back later when I got hungry).

Having started a day in the kitchen, I pawed the good old Edmonds book and found a recipe for Shrewsbury biscuits. This is likely where my domestic day began to unravel. "What's nicer than delivering home- baking to sick people?", I thought.

Of course, that meant I had to once again brave the sick house to fetch baking trays, a cookie cutter and another palmful of alcohol rub.

I couldn't be bothered heaving their food processor back to the annex so I had to cream the butter and sugar the old fashioned way. Now I understand why Grandma had one very strong arm. The main problem with Shrewsbury biscuits is that no-one tells you how to cut the hole in the middle and I discovered my patience for drilling dough-holes is on the light side.

I searched the annex for a range of circles and came up with an old engagement ring from an aunt's first (I think) marriage. Anyway, aunt does not suffer large knuckle joints so the ring was perfectly-sized and the biscuits were duly delivered with a note saying, "Sorry to hear you are diseased, I'll be back in an hour with dinner".

Dinner was pumped with almost a whole head of garlic so I'm expecting the Hoggs to return to health soon. Either that, or they'll send me out for toothpaste and mints.

I really mustn't complain. I hope things get back on track next week when I can turn back up at their house and expect to be fed without fear of infection.

- © Fairfax NZ News