At night I lay awake listening to the rain, maintaining superhuman levels of self-control to maintain a fine balance between breathing and waking The Girl with snuffling hog noises made in the back of my throat. By day I exercise the blowing of the nose roughly every six minutes, stay in my bathrobe until 5pm, and when I talk on the phone it is apparently from the far end of a long metal tube.
This, my friends, is the glamourous life of one who is sick like dog.
And like dog in rain, the overall effect is one of abject misery. I hate getting sick, possibly because it's so rare. I was little under the weather just before the surgery, but before that the last time was just after we landed in Amsterdam. I remember being out exploring one night with The Girl, stopping at some dark, smokey coffee shop on the Neiuwendyke and passing on the 'fat spliff' section of the menu in favour of hash tea. It did wonders for the throat. I think, however, that that would make a poor excuse in front of a Canadian judge. There are many ways to ease the discomfort of a headcold, but jailtime is probably not among them. I will have to get by without the benefits of Dutch culture this time.
The weather has turned nasty this week. Schedule is for rain, rain, rain, and it's colder than a witch's tit. Fall, as it slips into winter, is my favourite season here when the weather is nice - the sun is low on the horizon so the light is always red or gold, and women come out to shop in long coats, fur hats, scarfs and big boots, and that's nice to see. But none of it applies when the almighty Zeus is pissing on us indiscriminately, which he will evidently be doing for some time yet.
I will bounce back in a few days, but for now I have a good excuse for hibernation in shitty weather. I shall sit idly by invoking Roman gods to do my will. May Zeus the pissant be abruptly violated by a randy satyr. May he choke on his elixir, by Toutatis.
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