The Ick

Last Friday in Christmastide
Pistachio House

Dear, dear reader,

Your humble narrator has come to the inescapable conclusion that both his lungs and his sinuses are dimensionally transcendental - that is, they are larger on the inside than they are on the outside.

Though this revelation fills me with wonder, it does not fill me with happiness. Indeed, based on the physical evidence, I'm rather more likely to be filled with a green gummy sludge.

You may have wondered at the relative silence of your humble narrator. This is the reason.

I have, at this point, been ill all year. Ill enough, indeed, that I only reported for work on Monday and on Thursday. Both were a ghastly mistake. Monday set my recovery back days.

I'm sure I would have done better if it were not for the commute.

Truly, on Thursday morning I was feeling just spiffy (other than a sore throat and some congestion), but by the time I actually arrived at my place of employment, I was rather closer to dead than not.

The Ick, as I have named it, has all the symptoms of a common cold dialed to 11. Fuzzy head, chills, congestion, shards of glass in my throat, and the odd occasional feverish hot flash. Sleep for more than two hours at a stretch was impossible before yesterday.

And I'm not the only one - Sam has had The Ick since Christmas, and Francine caught it the same time I did, New Year's Day. Pistachio House rather resembles a plague ward.

We've been drinking plenty of warm fluids (mostly various herbal teas from Francine's impressive collection), and trying to keep warm. We've gone through about six boxes of tissue, and uncounted cold remedies in both pill and liquid form.

And I still don't feel as well as I did yesterday morning.

And I haven't made my 2010 default Userpic yet.

Well, at least we don't have snow...