not moving

Blisserooney. 9.45 a.m. Friday morning, and I am not dashing about the house packing, watering plants, leaving notes for the house-sitter. I am in bed with coffee, newspapers and you. After a night of coughing, I realized that travelling today would be absurd. I phoned and croaked postponements to Porter Airlines, Enterprise Car Rental and Auntie Do, emailed Airbnb and my brother, and went back to bed. It's just all that much sweeter that it's pouring with rain, dark and gloomy, and I am safe, warm and horizontal with nothing expected today, except to totter to the fridge occasionally.

And incidentally, I may be sick not because I dread the trip bla bla bla, but because there are germs in the air and I caught some of them. Don't have to get all psychoanalytical on your ass.

May you also today be safe and warm and, at some point, but not before you wish to be, horizontal.

PS. Anna told me that after staying at her apartment for a few days, the Stanfields, the rock band, gave her son Eli his first nickname. It's Rampage.

My poor daughter.

PPS. Just caught the last half of the Ontario phone-in program on CBC - today's topic, to tie in with Paul's concert on Sunday - "What do the Beatles mean to you?" The stories were moving - one man about hearing them for the first time in 1964 on the radio in his parent's car, and how everyone in the car grew silent and still, listening, as the song played. "They were happy," he said. "They made us happy."

Hurry up and get your @#$#@ memoir out there, idiot woman. There are legions of fans who'd like to read it. I hope.

PPPS. I've just diagnosed myself, as I lie here coughing, wheezing and blowing my nose. I'm pretty sure this is bronchitis, which I have a tendency to get. Yay! It's good to have a name.