I’m sick. Again. I feel like a broken record (do the kids even know what a record is these days?) because I’ve bees saying this every few months in the same resigned tone. This time, it started with a tickle in the back of my throat that turned into a coagulated mess blocking my throat. Every so often, I have to give a very concentrated (and loud) HUUUUUUUUAH to clear my throat, and it immediately becomes blocked again. Hm. Reminds me of Congress.
Anyhoo. I alternate between chilled and flushed, and I’m mostly huddling miserably under my blanket with only my cat, Shadow, to tend to me. He has many sterling qualities, but nursing is not one of them. He can’t make and bring me a cup of tea, for example. What he CAN do is snuggle with me (which he’s doing right now. Well, he’s snuggling next to me, which is close enough), and I do appreciate it. What I don’t appreciate is when he meows incessantly in the morning the second I’m awake until I get out of bed to feed him.
I’m drinking my tea, sucking on my cough drops, and trying to get enough rest while watching the old seasons of The Great British Bake Off. That’s about all I can do right now. Here’s a video of Alan Rickman making tea. Damn, I miss him. Still? Always.