THIS ISSUE'S missive reaches you from my fever-wracked sick bed. The doctor pleaded, the nurse begged, my lover entreated, but I refused to just lie there, terrible though my sufferings be, when there was a column to be written. There are some things intrinsically more important than mere physical well-being. Duty is one of them.

The plague struck on the first day of the Notting Hill carnival, as we assembled for a party in a flat overlooking the carnival route. I had been going to tell you all about the carnival, but all I remember is feeling dizzy and wondering why, since I hadn't drunk that much.

Languishing in my sick bed, listening to GLR - the thinking punter's local London radio station - I heard that ME sufferers are campaigning to get their malady taken more seriously. Symptoms include tiredness, apathy, unexplained aches and pains, nausea and general whinging. To me, it sounds strangely like the disease which blighted my valiant past attempts to comply with the nine-to-five regime: SOW, or Sick Of Work.

TROUBLE AT MILL

Which brings me fairly neatly, or at least not completely haphazardly, round to the subject of RSI, Repetitive Stress Injury, the crippling symptoms of which are sweeping through the high-tech world of VDU operators. Some swine of a doctor recently commented that it would appear to be contagious, insinuating that as it mostly strikes women, it's probably some form of psychosomatic hysteria.

Tell that to my pal Lucy. Weekly physiotherapy, daily exercises, high codeine doses and ergonomically designed office furniture has not proven enough to allow her a decent night's sleep, free from pain. For her, tearing, burning pains along her neck, shoulders and arms are a constant companion.

There is no way of knowing whether she will ever make a full recovery, because she can't afford to pack in her job. Partially because if you leave a job due to RSI, it's bloody hard to get another employer to take you on. It's also nigh on impossible to get health insurance.

The 'hysteria' spread to another woman in her office, Angela. Angela first started complaining of pains in her hands and wrists, resulting in general ridicule and suspicions of hypochondria. The accusations lessened when she was forced to abandon her touring holiday of Italy because the pains were so severe, they prevented her from driving the hired car.

I was freelancing at their office when the ergonomic instructor came round, accompanied by a lady with a clipboard, to check up on the state of the workforce and report back to the boss on any deterioration. The magazine's editor - a sound chap - suggested I stay for the talk and learn some of the exercises. I gratefully accepted.

What I witnessed was a room of people, all but one under 30, more than half of whom were incapable of carrying out the simple exercises we were shown. Like placing your hands on your hips and leaning back a bit. Like tilting your head forward, back, to the left, to the right. I had the distinct feeling of witnessing the technological equivalent of a Victorian factory, where workers contracted TB from inhaling cotton dust and lost arms to brutal machinery.

'It's good that your employer at least provides ergonomic instruction, physiotherapy and free visits to the optician," I commented, trying to find something cheery to say to Lucy.

"Keeping their own arses covered, aren't they," she replied, with uncharacteristic cynicism. "Don't want to get themselves lumbered with a load of compensation claims. This way they can argue they did everything they possibly could and it must be your own fault if you get RSI."

Lucy and Angela's work contracts include limitless unpaid overtime. On the days approaching press day, they and others regularly work 12 hour shifts without a proper break. Deadlines have to be met. If they become incompetent, for whatever reason, well, there's plenty ready to take their place. Shades of the workhouse once again.

NOSH SPOT

Gastronomes are not known to flock to London's East End in their millions, but there is much they are missing. Next time you find yourself over this way, check out the following:

Captain Cod, Westferry: The guy who fries the fish catches it himself and there are framed newspaper cuttings on the shop wall to prove it. You can see the proprietorial pride on his face as he fries up his catch, ranging from skate to plaice, succulent and tender and caressed by the crispiest of batters. Prices are according to the size of the fish. Take away only, and thoroughly recommended.

Cockney Maureen's, Chrisp (yes, typesetter, Chrisp) Street Market, Poplar: Pie and mash fit for the Queen, Gawd bless 'er. Tender, fat-free steak with smooth white mash and flavourful, real gravy. Puddney pud, a steamed variant, is particularly heartening. Greenish stuff called liquor is also available, as are strong mugs of tea and creamy hot chocolate. The interior is clean and modern and the prices ridiculously cheap. Example: puddney pie, mash and gravy plus hot drinks for two came to £3.50. Take away available. Open in the day-time only.

Brick Lane. Various curry houses: Brick Lane, near Aldgate East tube station, is an area inhabited almost entirely by Asians. Trawl along here and you will find starters from 80p for samosas, authentic Tandoori houses and arrays of sweets unheard of in the West. Several are unlicensed and you can take in your own booze, which brings the cost down still further. Menus reflect the regional culinary variety, service is invariably courteous and a three-course meal with coffee can cost you as little as a fiver.