For Lent this year I’ve been thinking of giving up leaning. I’m also giving up having a filthy, horrible cur of a cold but I haven’t made a very good start at it.
“Half the town is down with it!” so they say. The other half, smugly, isn’t. The problem children and I are in the woebegotten half of town, on the wrong sides of the tracks of pestilence. The girls got it a week ahead of me and are getting over it now, but my head still leaks, a jaggedy bit of serrated virus is trying to saw my uvula off, and some sort of an iron giant appears to have his boot on my chest. I don’t like any of that stuff.
All I can do is lie around groaning, pasty and noodle-limp, in a foetal position, like an overcooked macaroni elbow. Please send your best pity immediately. And grapes. I probably should be eating grapes or something. They’re a good fruit in a tragedy.
Anyway, I’ll be waiting wanly but bravely by the casement window, sneezing softly, my hands, now lying limply in my lap, now, fluttering delicately to the lace at my throat; waiting, waiting for all the lovely, lovely pity you’re going to send me in trendy stationary the colours of jewels.
I feel my voice fading now…I grow weak again…it is all I can do to whine and moan…farewell…farewell…achoo…farewell…