Chest Cold Wiseguy
It is time to go running.
I have recovered from my little chest cold, and it is time to move along.
It has been so long since I have had a chest cold that I have forgotten how they progress. I started off last Tuesday with a scratchy throat, and each day brought a sharpening of the horns of the dilemma: one horn went into the sublimity of my head, the other descended into the Avernus of my lungs.
And each day thereafter, there was a slight tightening, more coughing, and more tidal wave sinus action.
Friday past I told She-who-must-be-obeyed that I was perplexed; I felt as if I were getting better when I went to bed, but when I awoke, the virus seemed to be moving deeper and higher and I was not cured after all!
She said that that's how cold work. They get worse, then they get better. Week, ten days, whatever.
I pondered that for a while.
I mean, I thought that just because I jumped on top of this thing, made up a cauldron of onion soup with chicken broth as well as beef broth, and sacrificed many cloves of garlic as well, I should be - like - bright-eyed and bushy tailed, should I not?
No, the soup averts secondary infections, and does not attack the primary one.
I felt impatience, either that of a young ram or a querulous oldbuck.
But now I want to talk about Epic Poetry and the series Six Feet Under.
She-who-must-be obeyed had viewed Six Feet reruns and highly recommended it, so I bought it for Xmas.
She is a choice augur of good outcomes for such things, and she was most certainly in the case of Six Feet Under. (She had an off-day with Rising Lark To Candleford, but everyone has off-days.)
But this will have to wait. I must run.
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