*qoff*

I have mentioned I think herebefore (or possibly elsewherebefore) that I hold it as a truth self-evident, that talking about things only makes them worse.

As witness: woke up this morning - alas! - to find that last night's koff had progressed again already. As if in anticipation, sovay had already gifted me with qoff, as the next progression. So that's what it is, and I would sooner have spent this morning keeping it company on the sofa, but instead we went shopping. Now all I have to do is erect the new garden umbrella and install the base that our previous one never had, which is why our previous one is all broke, and then we'll have shade again for those who like that sort of thing.

Me, you will find me sitting stubbornly outside its ambit, trying to bake all through to my bones. Whatever bug this is, I'm sure it's lurking in my marrow. I will address it internally with toddies, and externally with sunshine. Then it'll be sorry.

In consonant news, I need better honey. When I'm sick, I occasionally revert to a toast-and-honey breakfast, because memory is almost as soothing as the honey itself; but the generic squeezebottle stuff that does fine for cooking and toddying is just not up to snuff for actual eating. There's a honey-merchant at the farmers' market, Saturdays; I may have to interrogate his stock, see what works. I used to love chestnut honey from France, and I'm sure there are chestnut groves in California, but I have only encountered blank looks when I ask for it, so I guess comprehensive testing is on the agenda. Hey-ho.

Doing it Rong. Again.

Okay, so I'm sick. I'm not very sick - the slow progress of this bug is either a tribute to my astonishingly healthy Californian lifestyle or else a dire warning of something very bad heading inexorably my way to lay a very patient siege to my bones - but sick I am, we have determined that. *issues an advisory qoff*

So: sick, check. Sofa, check. Toddy, check. Book? Um...

Here is where I am doing it rong. When I'm sick, I'm supposed to fall back on comfort reads, old favourites, the undemanding or the wallow. As soon as I acknowledged the sickness, I should've laid all else aside and reached for a buoyant lifejacket book.

Instead of which, I am still reading The Mayor of Castro Street, the life and times of Harvey Milk. And I've just reached the inexorable very bad bit. Hey-ho.

Come to think, I'd better be better by tomorrow; we have tickets for The Mikado. I'm told that it's singalong night. I guess whatever happens I will not be singing along; I barely have a voice to speak with. (Mildly to my astonishment, m'wife is a G&S newbie. We watched Topsy-Turvy last night, just to give her a little background. I'd forgotten that Allan Corduner really does play the piano that well.)

...And I just abandoned this posting to talk to her about other things, that we may or may not discuss hereabouts later, and we drifted into the bedroom where the walls are K's TBR pile, entirely lined with books - and my eye fell on Tales of Sector General, which appears to be an omnibus volume. And good lord, I haven't read James White in years, and he is something close to my definition of comfort reading. 'Scuse me, I'm heading back to my sofa...