I don't get ill a lot, so I'm a really bad patient. I know it. I know it like I know the sun rises in the afternoon and sets when it feels like it. Also I'm told 'you're a bad patient' a lot when I'm ill, so it must be true. And who was it that first decided chicken soup was the panacea of all ills? Whoever it was needs to be ... severely reprimanded. Probably Florence Nightingales uncle - who was on his uppers and had a chicken farm.
Fu-Fu-Fu-Flu is not what I was expecting the last time I smooched M. God, I love smooching M. It's just so ... nice! Hmm. Nice isn't the best descriptor. Nice is a bit lame, really. Fantabulous comes closer to the truth of it. Anyway, I've got it and he hasn't, which strikes me as being just a little unfair. Of course I can't prove he gave it to me. I could have got it at Sainsburys, or at any of the shops I've been in, but as I don't go around kissing cashiers at the shops, my bet is M.
What flu gives me is time to write. 'Ravelled Lives' is finished and nearly edited, and I'm tweaking with 'The First Day' and 'Sancho Shima NaNo', so they might be up before Christmas, too. The very last short from November's insanity is half done, and needs more than a smidgeon of work, as does 'Worth'. Neither are going to see the light of day until they're ready.
So that's me. ARRRRCHOOOOOOO!
Humph. *splutter - cough - sneeze*