After a relatively healthy winter, I am now battling a cold. Grumpy, sniffling, I drift aimlessly from room to room. Unfocused, tired, I seem unable to get interested in anything. I pick up a book, read a few pages and put it down. I have two knitting projects underway and moving at a glacial rate. The thought of doing some knitting sends me ambling into the kitchen to stare into the open fridge.

English: Julius Henry "Groucho" Marx...

I make homemade chicken noodle soup, suck on zinc lozenges and consume gallons of hot tea. My Inner Groucho has surfaced and my voice is barely a croak.

Of course the next stage of a cold (for me at least) is worse — my Inner Elmer Fudd crowds out Groucho and I become a congested mouth-

Elmer Fudd

Image via Wikipedia

breather. My cognitive abilities slow to a  crawl and bed becomes my habitat of choice.

 

I grew up reading the poems of Robert Louis Stevenson. Whenever I am sick, I always think of his ‘Land of the Counterpane.’ Except now instead of a counterpane filled with stuffed animals, dolls and other beloved toys I am surrounded by the most grownup of toys — a phone, MP3 and laptop. Functional yes. Comforting no.

 

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