Christmas - a time of giving. And, in among the socks and shaving sets, something far nastier.

And yes, I'd love to "repay" whoever gave me the dreaded winter bug.

But finding that out would take a CSI team (more on them later) kitted out in the lab -- because over the holidays everyone seemed to be coughing, spluttering or merely moaning about their aches and pains.

So here, for the fortunate few who have not yet succumbed (believe me, you probably will), here's a diary of a week of misery. Let me share it ... .

New Year's Eve

I ask the fellow party-goers if it's just me, an earthquake, or has the room suddenly started shaking? Everyone else appears steady on their feet -- even the ones who've lashed into the white wine. I'm stumbling, I've barely touched a drop, and it's only 10.40pm.

Midnight: Happy New Year, Auld Lang's ... .. whatever, I just want to go to bed. I think of the Bryan Adams song that "beer don't taste so good". Damn, I'm thinking of Bryan Adams lyrics -- I must be delirious. I drop my only can of 09 beer out of my feverish, shaking hands.

New Year's Day

Yup, it's a fever all right -- yet the ear thermometer has me at a perfect 35.7C. No, I'm freezing now. No, it's sweats again. No, icy chills. And the awful feelings of faintness are getting worse. I actually watch a full episode of Celebrity Big Brother -- and even the imbecilic yoof-oriented BB Extra show on E4. What a scary start to 09.

Saturday

Great intentions for the New Year -- like walking on the beach, going for a nice jog, actually using the gym membership, go out the window as I hit the duvet. And watch Celebrity Big Brother. And a rerun of CSI.

Sunday

I've never been stabbed in the head, but I reckon it feels something like the piercing headache that hits me, without fail, each afternoon for a couple of minutes. The all-round annoying headache just hits me at all other times.

By now, every time I eat I feel nauseous. Pat the Baker and Old Mr Brennan are making a fortune on the amount of dry toast I've nibbled.

Monday

Head into work, hoping that a change of scenery is as good as a rest. The shakiness is worse, and feeling that you're going to faint isn't the best idea at your desk. Go to the doctor -- with a queue almost out the door. It's a nasty bug, he informs me, and it's a week off work.

The highlight of the day? Watching Anne Frank's Diary on BBC1. Already I'm getting cabin fever after a few hours on the sofa -- and get a better idea of what it'd be like to be stuck in the attic for months.

Anne, of course, didn't have Celebrity Big Brother. I've already decided that Lucy and Ulrika are boring and should go.

Coughing and spluttering and mind-shattering headaches are bad, but I can feel my brain slowly rotting away as I channel hop between BB, CSI Vegas and CSI Miami.

Tuesday

I've got good powers of recovery, and by now I reckon the Augmentin should have kicked in. It hasn't. I feel worse -- get up late, watch Murder She Wrote in the afternoon, go to bed in the evening, wake up in time to feel like puking after dinner, watch Celebrity Big Brother ("Ben's been saved from eviction!"), go to bed early and do more sweating and shaking than Little Richard and Jerry Lee Lewis combined.

Wednesday

It's freezing outside -- but I'm boiling up in bed. No, I'm freezing, no (you get the drift) ... . I wake up, feeling ready to live life again. It lasts five minutes. A bit of toast and the tummy isn't happy and the room starts to shake as I stick on the kettle. I've had the flu jab, but this feels just like it, except it's nasty, making you feel fine for a few minutes, lulling you into a false sense of security, then ... WHAM ... it pulls the feet from under you.

And almost as bad is the cabin fever, that awful feeling of rottenness as the world seemingly keeps on going without you and you slum away in your baggy jumpers and tracksuit bottoms a la Bridget Jones

There's a quiz on Celebrity Big Brother between the show's two biggest fans EVER. One's a metrosexual bloke with no life, the other a young city girl who, like, uh, loves the show, and stuff and texts in every day about her faves.

In other words, two total losers.

At the end of the quiz, I've answered more questions than they have.

I know who entered the house first, I know Mini Me Verne Troyer's favourite actors, Sweet Jesus, this illness is worse than leprosy. Social leprosy, that is.

Thursday

Look like death warmed up, my muscles still ache and, from the bug that keeps on giving, I'm coughing up a lungful of grot.

In between drinking endless cups of tea while watching the Jeremy Kyle show. It's standard fare from Britain's answer to Jerry Springer (only tackier). Today, it's a case of is this work-shy scally really the baby's dad -- or did his tattooed tart from Tranmere do the dirty with hoodie No 1? Seriously, I'm actually interested.

Beware of the winter bug -- it might just give you brain damage.