I’ve got thracheitis.

Ain’t it just great? I was perfectly well, and suddenly I started coughing like mad, and it hurts when I do, and the doctor says it’s tracheitis.

Trouble is, tonight I should begin doing readings for authors at a small literary festival, but frankly I doubt I’ll be able to. Quite apart from the temperature and everything, even with codeine, I doubt either the authors or the audience would appreciate it, if I were to cough (brayingly) with every third (very scratchy) word… And that’s how things are, right now.

So I’m going to call in, and tell the festival people that, at least for tonight, I’m not going to read. What irks me – apart from the braying-like cough – is that it will look like some kind of petty vengeance, because we have not been working well together.

They were dreadfully slow in mailing the books (the last one just arrived yesterday), and nobody bothered to put me in touch with either the authors or the interviewers.

“Oh, read what you like best,” was the breezy answer, when I pointed out that I needed to make sure my choice of pieces would match the interviews… What I like best? What kind of answer is that?

I hear they are quite new at managing festivals – and I’m afraid it shows, and I’m even more afraid I let them know I thought so. It wouldn’t bother me too much – but now I must leave them reader-less at the last minute, at least for one night… And it’s not even my fault, but still.

And I’ve got tracheitis, and I’m unwell and feverish, and I bray, and I hate looking petty, and I’m not sure there isn’t a cold coming too, and all I want is to lay down and drink tea…

And yes, I’m dreadfully whiny, too. I think I’ll get myself a ginger, lemon and honey tea and get back to bed, because that’s all I’m fit for, right now.