Moan, moan, moan: I am ill with a horrible virus that isn't Covid (so the test strip emphatically says) but might as well be. It's wracking my lungs with coughing, something I'd be really worrying about if my head wasn't on tour of outer space), it's hurting my throat and mouth, my back, and my feet (even my feet!). Every couple of hours, the virus has an idea and decides to attack another limb or body organ in a new and painful way.
I've had to cancel the week: no heading to Huntingdon to mix the Gaelic tracks with Willie G, no Tate Modern catch-up with my pals. I've been asleep for hours on end, only waking to read cruddy crime novels and make tea.
I'm supposed to be arranging vocals for a superstar choir for one of Gina's forthcoming gigs in London, but that idea is resting for now. I also have an idea for a little graphic story that ca't come out of my head on to the page until I feel better.
My computer is of only fleeting interest. I did hazily amble through eBay, and found this toy that we used to have when we were little. It looks as though the felted feet of this one came off, just like ours, and the paint job on the face was just as rubbish. The only nice thing about it was the feel of the spiky mohair in your hands. McMum used to regularly give away (and throw away) our toys, and I guess that's what may have happened to the monkey. Part of me, guided by my brain soup, wanted to buy it for nostalgia's sake, but the other part of me said there was a reason that McMum got rid of this one.
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