Every winter, it seems, my system succumbs to The Alien – a cold that settles in my chest and refuses to budge. This is in spite of flu shots, massive quantities of vitamin C, and washing my hands enough to leave them permanently chapped.
Along with taking my voice, and giving me a cough like a Victorian consumptive (a description a dear friend said years and years ago and which is so apt I’ve remembered it ever since. Thank you, SJK!), my brain doesn’t really want to function.
So my quest to find my long-lost characters, and lure them back to communion with me, is on hold. Again. While I make noises like a pump organ with a ruptured bellows.
At least the dog doesn’t bark at the funny noises emanating from my chest.