I have the flu – the damn flu… again!

For the second time in less than a month. And I rather suspect it can’t have been the flu both times – at least not the same kind of flu – but that’s definitely cold comfort, when you are nursing a wildly see-sawing temperature, enjoying a sore throat, and feeling in general as if your head were stuffed with corned beef, glass marbles and cotton-wool.

And so I’m missing out a whole week of Dickens at the Tiny Theatre – which stings particularly, on account of this being the Christmas week, and of a change in my status in the play… Oh, I’ll tell you about it when I’m back, right after St. Stephen’s Day. For now just know that it’s a lovely thing – or it would be, if I weren’t missing it out.

Things being what they are, all I can manage is to make Christmas decorations – since my hands seem to work quite fine without my brain’s input – some very, very tiny patch of writing when the fever is down, and some reading. The rest is sleeping, sneezing, drinking tea, and staring vaguely at the flames in the fireplace. Goes without saying, I’m not up to any elaborate posting – hence the medical report, just to let you know I’m alive, if not quite kicking.

Not very interesting, I know – but bear with me. It will pass.