As I just wrote to Mick, requesting a book-viewing raincheck, I am presently the snot-blowing head-cold monster of your worst nightmare. Not a pretty sight by any means. My new best friend is my box of aloe-vera impregated tissues which prevent the tender skin around my nostrils (one of Best Beloved's favorite words, BTW) from shredding off. I lie in bed making the horned fist every time I'm asked how I am, to let my family know that yes, the head is still banging.
To add insult to injury, every time someone rings, Best Beloved says 'Oh, we're pretty jolly. [Ampersand Duck]'s feeling a bit low, she's just got a coldy-thing.' 'A COLDY THING???!!!' I croaked at him, feeling more like Ampersand Toad, 'how dare you? I'm DYING!!!' -- at which he rang back crazybrave and told her that I was dying. I'm sure she knew what he meant. She is a woman of much sympathy and understanding. He told me after that that I was being a bit miserable, and my response was 'if this had been you, mate, you would have bitten off my head for taking you so lightly'. For it is one of the unwritten laws of the universe that sick men havest no sense of humour. And there endest the whining for today.