We are struck with the revolving cold, which is slowing going around the family. Darwin has remained (and will remain, I hope) immune, but so far everyone else is in some stage or other of invalidism. I spent yesterday in bed, sleeping as much as possible, while the kids either slept off their own colds or sat rapt in front of the computer. Thank goodness that Netflix streams entire seasons of Tintin and Phineas and Ferb.
Today different people are in different stages -- some more energetic, some laid quite low. All I've done today is sleep, break up the occasional fight, and address Christmas cards. It's not a bad life, actually, when my sinuses aren't either too blocked or too drippy.
I'm grateful, actually, that this didn't hit us in November, or I never would have reached my 50,000 words. Stillwater fans, I'm still writing, but the past week with this cold creeping upon me has been very unproductive. I'd find myself staring stupidly at the screen, wondering how to construct this difficult sentence: "She raised her head to look at him." Then I'd check Facebook, because surely someone there would know. Then I'd go to bed.
For your listening pleasure: Must The Winter Come So Soon, from the opera Vanessa by Samuel Barber, sung by Susan Graham:
Anna Egan and I are going to try to record this over the Christmas holidays. If it's passable (more a comment on my playing than her singing), I'll post it.
Fortnightly Book, March 29
3 hours ago