the nasty little swine slipped us mickeys in wine

It's been a noxious few days. I'm still sick. I am so grumpy at still being sick that sore-headed bears I meet accidentally in the street are shuffling out of my way without making eye contact. I am clumsy, useless, brainless and exhausted: in the last few days I've bumped the back of someone else's car in traffic owing to stuffed reflexes, broken the Evil Landlord's coffee plunger through sheer stupidity, and bumbled through phil&jo's lovely braai thing as a sort of snuffling, ambulatory corpse with no conversation. Today I gave quite the worst tut I've ever given, on Lewis Carroll, for which there is no excuse, and involved myself in a deeply silly and pointless argument with our marketing person, who thinks my reservations about Facebook are naive and that giving up personal information is just "the risk you take" with social networks. (She doesn't believe in net neutrality, either, and my current brain is insufficient to the task of zorching her where she stands as her viewpoint so richly deserves). And this evening I had to field one of those, "So, your poor sick dad, how's he doing?" phone calls from one of his far-flung friends who slipped through the notification net in March. Also, Wesley Crusher has left Star Trek, and he was becoming something of a personal crusade (The Fans Done Him Wrong!), so I'm miffed.

On the upside, and thank you, virtualkathy, for fulfilling the public-spirited function of keeping me sane, Rachmaninov had big hands.

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