I had all sorts of plans for yesterday and today, but they were scuppered by an attack-bug of some sort that showed up overnight after I got home. Fever, chills, aches, gut disturbance…bleh. So I’m home, but not fighting-fit. Or writing-fit. Just to absolve myself of any blame (and I did try to be careful) I ‘m blaming New York ComicCon and the dense crowds of people carrying diseases to which I have no immunity.
This is not a serious illness, I’m sure…just miserable…and I should be well again in a few days, or at least better. I had a flu shot before the trip, so if it’s flu, it should be milder than it would otherwise have been…and if it’s something else, then…I’ll just live over it, as usual.
However, yesterday I wasn’t up to going online for more than 5 minutes (and dealt with emergent situations) and today’s going to be limited, so don’t expect much chatter from this end for awhile. (Biggest disappointment–the pitcher sage, an “old prairie” plant that we have some remnant populations of, is now at peak, according to my husband. It blooms only in October, briefly, with sky-blue flowers on a stalk from 3 to 6 feet high and I really, REALLY wanted to photograph it. Also, NewBike is waiting and I expected to roll it out yesterday and ride up to town. SIGH.)
I have been re-reading Mr. Sponge’s Sporting Tour in short snatches, one of my “sickbed” reading favorites. It’s by Surtees, and those of you who have not had the pleasure of reading any of Surtees’ hunting novels should hunt one up–this is in my top three of his–and enjoy the biting satire. Far less preachy than Dickens or Kingsley or Thackery, as witty as Austen or Trollope, with–like Dickens–a gift for names.