The day started normally at least.
Well, obviously there’s some debate over what “normal” constitutes, but I managed the shambling into consciousness thing.
The morning was spent fielding phone calls – Judith called about the Raisins and Almonds CD, which has had a few problems. These problems were not my fault per se, except perhaps my bad karma spilling over into someone else’s life. Any way, Judith called and told me she’d put the CD in the post and rang off so I could go downstairs and see whether it had arrived. It had. As had my package from DGM – the new King Crimson EP.
Judith calls back – the problem is where the printers have cut and moved film (which shouldn’t have been necessary) they’ve done it rather shoddily. I tell her that this is a standard part of the printer’s art but hardly the finest example of it I’ve ever seen (about 5mm out, which is quite a lot actually). For my part I wish I’d knocked back the background on the cover more.
Two more phone calls from prospective employers. This is good. In case you need to be told.
In the afternoon I decide to get a replacement metal thingy for the toilet, so set off for the infamous shopping centre. As I’m wandering around there I start feeling a bit… odd. I get home and have something to eat and feel odder. I’m getting attacks of shivering and spasms. I notice that the imprecations that pass my lips while I’m in the act of shivering spasmodically are such as “gosh!” “goodness!” and “my word!” which must mean something.
By half-past-six I’m flat on the floor listening to Pam Ayres on the radio. I don’t know whether the fact that I’m enjoying Ms Ayres is in anyway symptomatic of illness – perhaps it’s just that under such conditions we need comforting things such as honey or chicken soup. Or Pam Ayres.
She’s actually not bad. As a performance poet, or down-home sit-down comic. I’ve seen a few performance poets in my time and she’s as good as any of them (apart from a regrettable tendency to shout the last line of her poems in lieu of a punchline, although many of the poems have those too) and better than many. Of course this critical judgement comes from one who’s lying shivering on his living room floor with The Lurgi. Actually I think we can quite safely call this one ‘flu.
I potter around a bit before realising that I really ought to be in bed, find a portable radio, fail to find the mains cable for the portable radio and pass out at about 8:30.
I wonder if I caught it off someone on the way to the shopping centre. Perhaps if I’d stayed at home and not bothered to fix the toilet I’d have been all right. Quite a trade off: a convenient flush in exchange for one’s health.