sea2

A fog of phlegm has descended upon me. It sent advance warning of its arrival last Wednesday when I was lying on my back, fashionably drunk, and attempting to watch some football on television. Every now and again I shot bolt upright and coughed, resembling nothing more than a waking zombie in a morgue. I briefly considered going upstairs to get a white sheet to place over my cadaverous self to complete the effect. From there on in things have gone downhill. By Saturday night I felt that the air had turned to treacle and walking through it, let alone breathing it, had become impossible. But, as you would expect from someone brought up in one of Broadway's first families, the show went on and I staggered into work, hacking up, spluttering, sneexing and generally determined to take as many of the bastards down with me as I could. I have a Hungerford/Columbine mentality when it comes to illness. So, last night I am sat there at work, fading like autumn light, and I get a text message from a friend who is on his way to London. It reads, "Drinking Stella on train. Reminds me of trips to Glasgow." I reply, "Full of cold at work. Reminds me of siege of Stalingrad." Eventually I get home in the wee small hours and sleep the fitful sleep of the feverish. Weird visions inhabit my dreams. Camilla Parker Bowles is speaking to me. "Herr Paps! You are not leaving so early?" I answer, "I do not find this party amusing." "Ah- but it is just beginning. Come, we will make itamusing - you and I - Ja? Herr Paps - this is for you," and with that I turn to see Prince Harry singing in a pure, unbroken voice...

The babe in his cradle is closing his eyes
The blossom embraces the bee.
But soon, says a whisper;
"Arise, arise,
Tomorrow belongs to me"

I wake up and resolve to "go steady" with my painkiller intake.