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If I have to be sick, I'd rather be properly sick. It's terribly galling to feel out of sorts only to take one's temperature and discover it's disgustingly normal. Happily (er, sort of) my temperature hit 40oC on Sunday (or about 104o for Fahrenheit-minded readers). So, unpleasant as all the chills and fevers of this last week have been, at least I can say I've been sick.
Sleeping was all I could manage to do these last few days. Even a game of Minesweeper exhausted me (and, not for the first time, made me glad those mines aren't real) but I felt well enough today to sit in the garden and read. So I picked a mystery novel, something not too challenging, so as not to tax my fevered brain; this was a mistake. I have never hated a heroine so quickly and with such vehemence before.
( Who Killed Cock Robin? - Margaret Duffy )
So with that incredibly silly book out of the way, I've started another mystery novel, which is so far going well - except for one small quibble. But that's for another day.
Sleeping was all I could manage to do these last few days. Even a game of Minesweeper exhausted me (and, not for the first time, made me glad those mines aren't real) but I felt well enough today to sit in the garden and read. So I picked a mystery novel, something not too challenging, so as not to tax my fevered brain; this was a mistake. I have never hated a heroine so quickly and with such vehemence before.
( Who Killed Cock Robin? - Margaret Duffy )
So with that incredibly silly book out of the way, I've started another mystery novel, which is so far going well - except for one small quibble. But that's for another day.
