My husband has the flu. Although he mock-whines when sick, in a pleading little boy voice, he doesn’t need my help now: he’s snoring, sleeping contentedly by my side. The dogs are at his feet, murmurs from their canine dreams occasionally breaking free: they are warm, happy. I’m on my back, staring at the too-blue sky that is flaunting itself through the carelessly closed blinds. Clouds are spinning past the electrical wires; faded brown squirrels are on the march. I swear I heard a bird chirp. I have important things to write, a shower to take, tea to brew. It’s 3 o’clock on a Sunday, February has dawned. I’m too satisfied staring at the incandescent sun. It hasn’t been Winter at all.
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A Small Press Life: Books. Art. Writing. Life. Tea. 
Its snowing like its going out of fashion over here in London land. I think what this man is suffering from is what we call man flu, a terrible condition were a snuffly noise can be terminal.
Woofs
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You may keep all of that nasty, cold snow. We have escaped the season with enough snow to fill a teaspoon; I’d like it to stay that way. I’m perfectly happy to skip from Autumn to Spring. As for that eternal question, “Is it man flu or real flu?”….the jury is still out.
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I enjoyed today’s post very much. Thanks for sharing.
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Yesterday was 60 degrees and we romped around all day like nobody’s business. That image you created is greatly appreciated.
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Thanks so much, whatmakesadaygreat! It’s nice to be appreciated. The weather has been so ravishing here in the Queen City that I could write about it every day!
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