On Page 133, The Only One Close To Death Is The Author

i.e. Me.

Or I.E. me.

Take your pick.

Usually when I write about something looking sweet and innocent, but actually cruel and vicious, I'm referring to Scooter.

But not this time.

No, it's spring, the most glorious season of the year, that has done me in.

Thanks to my hearty peasant blood, I never suffer from allergies. But this season, after an incredibly mild winter followed by an incredibly hot spring, my aristocratic sensitive blood has taken over.

When I'm not sneezing, I'm blowing my nose. When I'm not blowing my nose, my eyes are weeping. Actually my eyes are simultaneously extremely wet and painfully dry. Even indoors, sunlight hurts.

I really would be working on The Shade Of The Moon Take Three, but it's hard to type when you're wearing a sleep mask. And blowing your nose. And sneezing.

I do intend to get back to writing. As soon as this
starts looking like this, I'll return to the manuscript, and find out who lives and who dies.

I hope I'll be in the who lives category!