Okay, I’m flattened.  This is a monumental head cold with cough and I am sick.  Resigned that I won’t make any church service.  Dragged myself out to Majoria’s this morning for Coricidin, Chloraseptic, cough drops and Kleenex, and got Earl Grey tea from Canseco’s.  Trying to fast today is Good Friday, but don’t have much of an appetite anyway.  Awakened in the middle of the night out of a sound sleep, you know, one of those sick sound sleeps with scratchy throat.  Fixed a cup of Sleepytime for want of being out of everything else and tried to read in the living room but that good tea lulled me into a deep sleep with my head hanging over my book, turned out the lights and slept until after six.  There’s something in the air, every time I open a window for something I start coughing.  I feel like watching what I consider one of my comfort movies for the umpteenth time–Signs.  In that mood.  Finished reading, “The Yard,” and I liked it very much.  The writer in his acknowledgments thanked the British publishers who” believed in another Victorian crime novel written by some guy in the Midwest.”  Jolly good show, jolly good book with all the disgusting elements of gaslit London weaving a fine macabre motif–not to mention highly likeable coppas and detectives in the Murder Squad.

Looks like I will either have pizza or Chinese delivered for Easter Sunday dinner–that is, if I get my appetite back.  What a revolting development this has been!  But, in a funny way, its sustaining to suffer a bit on the day commemorating the day He suffered so much.

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