Jul 20, 2006 17:12
Tonstant Weader fwowed up.
Well, actually not, but as near as damn it. My head hurts and is hot (it's so easy to tell, with all this shaven-headedness), my joints ache and shiver, I am moving i-n-c-r-e-d-i-b-l-y s-l-o-w-l-y, which is always my classic viral symptom.
So: Tonstant Weader weads no more. 'Stead he swallows pills (ibuprofen and co-codamol by turns, hurrah - double meds!) and will tumble downstairs any moment. Going to bed is too much trouble, and besides, Barry wouldn't join me there (don't know what it is about that room, but he just won't). So I shall sprawl on the sofa (which is why I have a seven-footer of extraordinary comfortability) and doze, or listen to the radio, or whatever. See what comes. Be sprawled upon by His Catness, if he can be bothered. Likely he will: it's coming up his tea-time at six, and he's always very affectionate this hour. Afterwards, he will be full of vim and teeth. He thinks I'm fooled by this procedure, each and every day. Y'know what? Perhaps I am.
I shall report back at later date.