Sunday November 19, 2006

“How you feeling?” Graham asked.

“Oh, you know. Up and down. Hot and cold. The ups are getting better and downs are not so bad.”

“Poor chicken. When you hit a high spot you can drive me down to Sainsbury’s and I’ll get us the fixings for a Spag Bog. Do you good, will a plate of my special Spag Bog.”

“You’re on.”

I waited in the car, tissues to hand, while he dashed in and returned in short order with a bag of goodies, including one of those lovely packets of long spaghetti wrapped in blue sugar paper, the way spaghetti ought to be.

“Oh, yum,” I said, tucking my latest tissue into the plastic bag I’d brought with me for the purpose.

“Hope so. Come on. Let’s get you back home in the warm and dry.”

And so the day went. Up and down. Hot and cold. An endless procession of tissues covering what is now a residual cough, deep, wracking and rather painful, but decidedly residual.

I finished the poem I was writing on the 17th when I was first knocked down. The one I was working on yesterday, and that of today, are rather delirium-filled and I want to hang on to them until my eyes clear a little.

Not much more to say than that except for my deepest thanks for all the good wishes. Oh, and the spaghetti was delicious.



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