It’s April, the garden is a riot, the weather sweet – and I’ve got the flu.
I should be writing, re-writing, exercising, translating, following rehearsals, putting in practice all my nice new resolutions – but no: I’ve got the flu…
I know there are some who wade through the flu with their heads high, and manage to do everything even in a fever… Stout and brave people, I salute you. Myself, I’m made of weaker stuff. All I can do is lie in a miserable heap, and curse fate, and wait for it to be gone…
Oh, and there’s smiling weakly whenever someone asks isn’t it a bit late in the season for the flu?
What can I say? I have the darn flu. An April flu. Virgil, and Shakespeare, and everything will have to wait.