I have slept today away in the fitful slumber of one with head and lungs full of unpleasantness. I have dreamt of drowning and woken myself coughing. Throughout this eventful illness (I’m sure it’s consumption) I have been blessed with great advice. Day 1: A hot toddy (brandy and … I forget the other ingredients, never really got past the brandy); Day 2: Spiked orange juice (juice of 3 oranges and 1 lemon, leatherwood honey, 2 disprins, and a slug of brandy). Tasted like a bad cheap cocktail at a wedding, but did me some good I’m sure, especially when I followed it with another brandy. Day 3: Liquid Echinacea three times a day in water. This is my least favourite option. Firstly I have no Liquid Echinacea (easily fixed tho), secondly it doesn’t involve brandy (easily fixed too). But it just sounds too darn sensible!
Anyway after waking and launching myself for two hours into Tim Winton’s ‘Cloudstreet’ (what a magic dusty way with words), I finally roused myself from my chamber, showered, fed the cat. Straight for the tea and toast. Smothered in leatherwood honey (the toast, not me). And now I’ve got the biggest, loudest, most irrational craving for butter chicken. Or potato cakes. So why is it that when we’re sick and snotty all we crave is simple pleasures? You could come flouncing in here with your horn of plenty overflowing with crays and champagne, and all I’d be asking is “but where’s the toast?”. I dare say I would even turn my nose up at a Craigie Knowe Cab Sav (gasp!), saying “can I have a cup of tea please?” Some days life has a way of putting things into perspective.
Anyway, seeing as how I’m all fey and wan and unable to dine with orgiastic abandon this weekend … I call upon the HRB sprites to away! away! and return with tales of joy or woe to stuff our heads with nonsense (beats snot anyway).
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