Deadness and weather

 

I'm a beyond-dead knackered person.  A beyond knackered dead person?  Whatever.  The weather is not conducive to coherent thought, or even retention of much vocabulary:  it's that kind of swampy fug that makes you feel like one of those several-thousand-year-old bodies buried in a peat bog.  You may be well preserved for your age but . . .  Could I convince you that my birth language is Gveltch*, and I tend to revert when I'm really tired?  Gehgrug.  Ardangle brak.  Slomag.  Dah.  Fribkizam ...