sickness
It's no joke; today far worse than yesterday - I'm only writing this because I went to sleep for an hour and woke up 1.2C degrees cooller, with all the bedding drenched. So I'm in clean sheets. I managed a small baked apple. But is it a cure? Probably not yet: still plenty of scope for another sleepless night wandering the corridor like an apparition, wrapped in a pink Ikea blanket (fleece) and groaning...
3 comments:
I'd say to dose yourself with a vat of Ny-Quil, except it isn't available in Ireland and I'd therefore imagine isn't in England either. But I've gotten a few poems out of a combination of low-grade fever and strong cough medicine.
At any rate, get better.
Quincy
Sorry you're still unwell Katy. Some pleasantly disposed god (a Braoque angel perhaps) should beam you to a happier, warmer place where you can stretch content as a cat for a couple of weeks and do nothing but sup, write and read. Hope you recover soon.
Thanks, you two. Quincy, the UK equivalent would be Night Nurse; but I'm now told I can't take any of those things because of my eye. Anyway, no one ever wrote anything with a stomach ache like that! Even the Ikea blanket was shut in the room with the Rock God last night...
Mark, you are so right.
Anyway, today I've eaten some soup - even made the soup - very nourishing with onion, potatoes, carrots, celery & spinach. Whizzed. No milk in. And I do feel a bit better, though still hot.
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