“Illness is the most heeded of doctors: to goodness and wisdom we only make promises; pain we obey.”-Marcel Proust
I’ve been down since Thursday with what my husband calls The Crud, a hazy combination of the ‘flu, a bad cold, and general malaise. The bottom of my favourite tea canister is visible, the bag of cherry lozenges empty; work is piled high by the bed, and I am cranky. Sleep and reading have been my twin graces. I am almost ready to crawl back into the murmur and hum of the wider world. Almost. Right after I finish one more chapter each of four books and drain the amber liquid from my tea-cup.