Placeholder

 

Blah blah blah blah SICK blah blah blah SICK blah blah blah blah SICK.  Blah.  SICK. 

            I'm actually better—sort of—but not all that much, and after hurtling hellhounds twice and doing some work, now by evening blog time I'm pretty much cole slaw again.*  Not being able to breathe really takes it out of you.  And I have a cough to frighten small children.  Hell, it frightens me.  I have to stop and lean against a wall, or a hellhound, if that's what's available.  I'm also at the my-nose-has-been-running-for-so-long stage that smiling makes the entire centre of my face crack painfully.  My ears and forehead throb.  My stomach doesn't want to know about food.  Since I realised last night was going to be grim I left the radio on—Peter sleeps with the radio on pretty much every night which I am sure has a detrimental effect on the quality of his sleep but we won't get into that here but I close the book and turn the light and the radio off in the same habitual gesture.  Last night I left the radio on and it was comforting in the dark unpleasant hours.**  And then—I can't remember if it was at 6 or 7 o'clock—it suddenly got all chatty.  I am an obsessive listener to Radio 3, which is classical, with a few unappreciated-by-me forays into jazz, and they don't do the in your face DJ thing on classical stations.  But they can get fatuous*** and they can certainly get garrulous.  And apparently the given wisdom is that people staggering around getting ready for their office jobs want chat.   Uggh.  People late (even for them) in bed with demonic head/upper respiratory colds do not want chat.  Blah.  Sick.

            It took me three tries to get out of bed at all and then I only remained upright long enough to shiver downstairs and let poor patient hellhounds out of their crate.  Then I went back to bed (which was popular with hellhounds†).  It was after noon by the time I managed to make and drink my first cup of perilously strong tea . . . gods.  It's PERFECT gardening weather†† and I'm too wasted to take advantage.  My fritillaries are blooming away like anything, my robin is still sitting on her nest and my new roses came three days ago and I haven't been up to anything but ripping the packages open and making sure the roots are damp.  Today I at least got them heeled in and roses will last a surprisingly long while merely heeled in . . . ahem . . . although planting them would be preferable.

            Blah.  Sick.  Blah.

            I'm also reading another perfect book for low lurgified distraction—Patricia C Wrede's A MATTER OF MAGIC, which many if not most of you know since many (if not most) of you have recommended it.†††  And now, if you'll forgive me, I think I'll go lie down again and read some more of it.‡  Well, no, first I'm going to go back to the cottage and bring the frelling sweet peas indoors again.

            Blah blah blah blah SICK blah blah blah blah blah STILL FRELLING THRICE BLASTED SICK BLAH. 

* * *

* And I'm sure my mayonnaise has gone off.  

** I can't believe the timing of my electric blanket going phut.  I'd managed to buy a new one before the lurgy prostrated me . . . but I presently haven't got the energy to spare to rip the bed apart^ and put the freller on. 

^ It's an under-your-bottom-sheet one, which seems to be standard over here, and what I've got used to. 

*** As during the week of non-stop, all Schubert all the time, which is finally over.  I love a lot of Schubert, and Schubert lieder make me want to get to German sooner with Nadia^, but not continuously, relentlessly, day after day after day after frelling day.   

^ Although this is a classic case of, we have Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau, so why?  Stick to Jingle Bells, honey.  

† Oh reckless dog owner beware of precedent.  

†† Except for the fact that we're having ANOTHER FROST TONIGHT and since I didn't know that earlier everything at the cottage is still outdoors . . . but in fact I probably will get home earlier than usual tonight.  Like . . . maybe now. 

††† For any of you who read the originals, it's a one-volume of Mairelon the Magician and The Magician's Ward. 

‡ But may I just say that it amuses me that yesterday's blog, preoccupied as it was with not only handbells but the miseries of illness, roused comments about what on the forum?  Knitting.  Most of you remembered to say off handedly 'oh, hope you feel better soon!' but clearly your focus was on the knitting.