The Cold, which has been threatening since the beginning of last week, has arrived with a vengence. This definitely feels like a punishment for too much drinking and late-night partying in London, and while I know I should be hugely grateful that it delayed its appearance for a week, am feeling far too full of self-pity to manage this.
This morning will see me retreating to bed with a notebook (though it's unlikely that romantic inspiration will strike when my head is full of wallpaper paste) a lemisp and the radio, so that I can listen to this on Radio 4 at 11.30. Am slightly nervous at this prospect-- for reasons so beautifully and concisely expressed by Kate Walker, here, and also incase after listening to the bit about the writing course I realise that I don't have what it takes to be a Mills&Boon author.
Think I shall also arm myself with the biscuit tin and several pieces of toast and jam, to ward off feelings of insecurity and because ancient medical lore says you must feed a cold. Technically I think that means today I'm eating for two.
Every cloud has a silver lining.