Bring out your dead...

...or, if I just sit here on the doorstep, will someone pick me up in the morning?

Or, I'm sick again. Or still. Whatever. My head is horrible, and I think I have buboes. (I read 'La Peste' at an impressionable age, and every time anything remotely glandular, nodular or otherwise internal starts to hurt, I always reckon plague.)

Anyway: I do in any case have a tradition of avoiding parties (sorry, Harry) and staying in on New Year's Eve. Just a personal thing. My own tradition is for a hot bath, a bottle of whisky and Radio 4. Tonight I'm not even going to make it to midnight; I have had the bath, which didn't help, and now I'm going to bed. Without the whisky, shock horror. I told you, I'm sick. And not the kind that whisky's going to help.

I can't believe I just said that.