I call it a bronchial infection.  I now understand what it is.  It is the wet snot, the yellow phlegm that never finally clears in the throat, the wheezing breath sleepless in the night, and the hacking cough that presses phosphenes onto the vision, the headache from the awful work of blowing out this muck, and the longing for momentary relief of one good sneeze to clean it all out albeit briefly, the despair of the shortness of breath.  Now that I know what it is I want to exorcise it to the Fires of Hell prepared for the Devil and His Angels with all the intolerant spirituality that I can muster!  Bell, Book and Candle! Bring it on!

I have been home for several days, pointedly not turning on my faithful desk-top computer.  I would only sit at it and browse, and cough.  My couchant time has been productive for reading, mostly fantasy fiction.  The First Act of Jon Courtenay Grimwood’s The Assassini had a moment where a vampire and a werewolf battled over the roof-tops of Venice and I recognised that the author had allowed too much back-story to kill off either character in that battle.  The consequences of choosing an alternative resolution would have been interesting.  Presumably the series will have three ‘Acts’ or volumes, and be a conventional trilogy.

The two Dresden Files I had borrowed from Southern Dave proved to be solid reads, and I can arrange to return them.

Migrations by Rod Edmond told the story of a migrant New Zealander searching his family history in Scotland, Vanuatu, Tasmania and New Zealand, an excellent piece of post-Presbyterian writing.  I think I will be loaning that one to the archivist.

Another borrowed book was Ken MacLeod’s Newton’s Wake.  I will return it to my supplier and ask for another by the same author.

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