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| Coryza of the Homunculus. My Id. Isn't he gorgeous? |
I've been pouring coffee in my right ear and fenugreek tea into my left. My nose has a spring-loaded Aspirin dispenser in one nostril and an I.N. drip (Intra Nostril) for Night-Doctor in the other. Night Doctor is like Night Nurse but better qualified and able to use the buzzy-clunk machine with the "charging" already and the "400 joules" and the pads and with the "Clear!"
Damn me though if I've not having to make some serious, albeit temporary changes at Owl Towers.
Been commutin' since the start of this disconvenience from the roaring fire in my bedroom via the roaring fire in the main passenger lift, past the roaring fire in the hallway to the roaring fire in the library. I've now had a wood-burning stove added to my three-wheeled wicker bathchair and a warming radiator plumbed in under my Arsenal Villa are doing awfully well this year are they not.
Whereas ordinarily I would remove my own decanter stoppers I've temporarily installed a stopper-wallah per decanter and someone to press the tumbler to my lips. I blink once for brandy, twice for port and three times for a medicinal Martini. For an olive I raise my little pinky. It seems to be working as well as may be expected; I'm improving - I reached for my own handkerchief just a little earlier today (although I needed help to blow, obviously).
The television remote control and the book page-turner have been allowed to wear anti-sneeze sou'westers.
A small Welsh bass-baritone octet has been engaged to moan and groan for me whenever I point at them.
To any gentlemen out there I'd just like to say yes, it's disgusting and debilitating but I'm soldiering through, making the best of it with the few resources at my disposal.
To any ladies out there I'd just like to confirm that yes, I am still fulfilling my compulsory role as hunter-gatherer so the natural matriarchal order isn't being threatened by a man taking time out and no, I don't expect the least bit of empathy. Bring on the "man-flu" diagnosisesieses and disparagements!
Normal service will be resumed in spring, possibly summer.
Ug.
Looking at his proportions...I would say he's awelshman
ReplyDeleteBig hands and feet eh?
DeleteThat is one interesting looking creature! Love the blog sir.
ReplyDeleteWelcome yonder Optimistic Existentialister! ... and thank you.
DeleteHomunculus (I've never formally named him) is ordinarily quite a good driver, but I suspect that he'll need a day or three to get back to normal.
Normal service resuming in summer - so the one sunny day in mid-May?
ReplyDeleteSummer tends to be when I get out the S.A.D. light and the tartan rug and have a picnic in the drawing room ... sometimes I turn on the sprinklers and leave all of the windows open to make it more authentic!
DeleteOooh - the LemSips are kicking in nicely and mixing with the G&T to create an unholy buzz just behind my left eyebrow.
do you want me to pop over and pour warm honey and whisky down your throat? The Viking is poorly sick too so it's no bother...
ReplyDeleteThankee kind Sir, the Sis has just popped over from Pear Tree Log with a warm treacle tart so I've just spent an hour sleeping face down in that and it has helped enormously.
DeleteMy best wishes for a speedy recovery to the Viking! I intensely dislike these cold bugs, they make my brain feel like a difficult-to-start fire, lots of smoke and the occasional red glow, but no heat or sparks!
Chicken soup! Take one live chicken, place in liquidiser, add a dash of white wine, and BLITZ.
ReplyDeleteWhen I have a stinker, I always read 'Jude the Obscure'. It's the world's most depressing book, and seems to go well with illness.
I've passed the recipe on to Cook, we'll see what she comes up with.
DeleteFeeling ever so slightly more human again today but I'm not going to push the envelope. I may have myself rocked back and forth in my bathchair for exercise, but that's all ...
Is "Jude the Obscure" Ethelred the Unready's barking mad cousin, they kept locked in the root cellar and was only allowed out for the weekly truffle hunt?
DeleteI wonder if perhaps you are thinking of Jude the Confused, Mr Law the younger's identical twin sister, separated at conception?
DeleteThe truffle hunt just hasn't been the same since they stopped us using the Army. Oh how I miss those lazy, crazy, hazy days of summer, Algernon my truffle-pig snuffling through the undergrowth on the end of his lead, Nanny, dear Nanny crashing through the undergrowth on her lead, followed by the tank brigade. Happy days. We shan't see their like again I fear, until at least April, possibly May.
For God's sake man! You are making more fuss than you did when that elephant fell on you after you shot it in Rawalpindi back in '82.
ReplyDeleteYes, but I shot that damned thing with my sportin' Howitzer from five miles away; no-one has yet explained to me exactly how the ruddy thing then "fell" on me in my tent or why everyone else on the hunt packed up and moved on, leavin' me under there.
DeleteI got a good laugh picturing you at being assisted with blowing your nose. I hope all the booze and warm fires help snap you out of the winter "crud" (that's what we call it around here). I'll have to google treacle pie and find out what Elaine is feeding you to perk you up. I got some stuff in a can once called treacle. It had to be boiled in the can for some time before you cold open it and eat it. Would that be the same thing?
ReplyDeleteTreacle tart is a much misunderstood, mistaken and mis-baked (whole new composite word I just invented) pudding. When you Google it most of the results and recipes look downright disgusting though.
DeleteSurprisingly, wikipedia has quite a respectable showing: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Treacle_tart
It's made with shortcrust pastry, golden syrup, lemon, mayhap a sniffle of ginger, a lattice-work pastry topping and never, in spite of Wikipedia's other quite correct points, served with "creme ruddy freche" or "clotted cream" - but always served properly hot or warm, with proper English custard. It's an artform, a luxury, a bit of secret English magic - please don't tell anyone about it; we want to keep the rest of the world convinced that the food in England is awful.
The sister is a dab hand at veganising recipes when she spoils me rotten, and I thank her most heartily for it!
p.s. starting to feel vaguely human again now. I've been released from the coughing-straps and the chap who ordinarily moves the coal around below-stairs no longer has to hold my brains in when I sneeze.
Even the dashed natives of Angola, and they are pretty dashed having endured colonisation by Portugal, a country which, until it crawled through the soft underbelly of Europe and got into the EU, was considered Third World, refer to custard as 'Molho Inglés', English Sauce. Even the French, with whom the English still have a most justifiable long standing grievance call it 'Sauce Anglais'.
DeleteUnlike every other country in the world, the English never have to celebrate Independance Day as they have never been anything other than independant but if they did, it would be CUSTARD they would be eating (and then being English, throwing pies of it at each other).
Thinking about that last paragraph, perhaps we will have Secession Day, an annual celebration of us leaving the EU during which we get rid of outrageously expensive to maintain trident missiles by swapping the nuclear warheads for custard bombs and launching them at the French and Germans. Then we could have Custard Pie Day, celebrating the mass attack on the House of Commons by the electorate which left over a hundred MP's with dry cleaning bills, dozens 'damn nearly blind with sticky eyes' and several with respiratory difficulties until the custard was vacuumed from their nostrils using those noisy sucky devices dentists use.
Celebrating Guy Fawkes' Day with a certain amount of gusto and plastic explosives would be my choice. Once a year the palace of Westminster and all those who ride the gravy train, lifted to the heavens to return to earth with a resounding thump.
DeleteThere's really nothing quite like a pudding with custard, it's quite the best medicine in the world (unless you're allergic to custard). Two puddings with custard, I suppose, would be better, but I can't think of anything else that comes close. It is, however, of little use in cases of Malaria except to sit in a vat of it, as a preventative.
When it comes to malaria, one shouldn't over look the palliative effect of a full body custard massage administered by naked maidlings to ease one's aching muscles (naked only in order to keep down the laundry bill for uniforms, maidlings hose off quite nicely).
DeleteO' thou hairless nave, how ever do you manage to fit your prodigious package under the steering wheel? I tried not to look directly at it, but it is lovely.
ReplyDeleteYou're making me blush madam with mis-placed praise. While my homunculus may be a god among homunculii I must report that I am a standard fit overseas-operations military uniform wearer with no need for recourse to the ministrations of the regimental tailor's trouser tinkerer.
DeleteOn the plus side, this means that I _can_ wear my striped lycra knee-length swimming suit without causing consternation or unseemly titters, so there's a silver lining to everything.
My striped lycra knee-length swimming suit doesn't have a silver lining. Just brass buttons, spun gold epaulets and a velvet wing-collar. Nothing fancy.
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ReplyDeleteThe comment may have been deleted by the author before I could read it but I shall answer the question anyway, since it raises an interesting question of practical folklore.
DeleteI believe that you boil the resultant mixture until effervescent, and then place it under the armpits in a hemp bag for at least a week. The stuffed racoon is merely for decoration and, as such, optional. Both racoon and mixture should be removed at the first sign of legal action or amorous intent.