I may be offline until V-day. Our house is under quarentine for quite a nasty cold that we just can’t seem to shake. The Doctor may be in order by Monday if this keeps up. My head feels like it is about to explode from sinus pressure. Until then I will leave you with this snippet from The Hawk and the Dove Trilogy. Read it while curled under covers late at night trying to warm my feet. Very appropriate for this season!
The season of colds, which ran all the way through to the end of February, started in November, when the magical, golden enchantment of autumn days (the wine of the seasons, when the year held its breath at the approach of frost and fire) turned into the raw damp of the back-end of the year, clogging leaves packed underfoot and chilling fog pervading everything. If I had to draw a picture of November, I think I would draw an old man in a grey macintosh, blowing his nose. Even the smoky delights of fireworks and baked potatoes on bonfire night do no more than hold off the depression of those creeping fingers of darkness and cold.
A gift from an ever-caring mother-in-law to ease my sufferings!
Lady Earl Grey hot and steeping just waiting to be adulterated with honey and milk!
