Victorianitas

Dear Internet, I am ill. And I complain to you because everybody else in my life is fed up of hearing about it. At least, I'm pretty sure they are; I'm fed up of hearing about it, and I'm the one doing the sneezing. Three and a half weeks this thing has plagued me, sneaking up on my immune system in some complicated pounce-and-retreat pattern. Three times I've learnt that feeling like I've finally shaken it off only means it's crept away to regroup and discuss tactics, all the better to launch a new assault that leaves me waking up feeling like I've been beaten up by a scarecrow. And it's not like I'm very ill - no more than a very persistent cold, really - but still.

Fortunately, I can work from home. Less fortunately, I am useless at working from home. (And besides, I'm currently at my parents' several hundred miles away, but that's not the point.) But I have an article that needs writing, on the basis that if I submit it next week it'll maybe end up getting published by mid-2019, and the article did not get written on Friday's long train journey like I wanted it to be, because on Friday's long train journey I gave up on trying to wait out the pestilent lurgy, curled up in my seat by the window, and went to sleep.