I have a fucking cold, I hate colds, I hate the way they sneak up and grab your face in a claw of catarrh and heaviness. And they are recursive, they don't disappear in a week or two (as they should), but loop back on themselves, and you find that you are still sneezing and blocked up when you should have recovered. (And the real pain is my other symptoms worsen, that is the real drag, almost frightening, even after all these years.) Am distracting myself with Mother's Milk by Edward St. Aubyn, I waited for a long time to get it from the library and I am not disappointed.
And I miss my nephews. The older one's six-year-old friend told me that 'most things in the world are circles' - I am still pondering the loveliness of that thought.