what we have here is a failure to communicate

Try as I might, I could not avoid a winter cold. It struck suddenly on Saturday night, mid-shift at Reel Pizza Cinerama, a sharp tickling at the back of my throat. Within a few hours it was a painful gash in my swallow, and I went to bed early, hoping to escape it or fend it off with tangy chunks of orange Vitamin C tablets.

I woke feeling as thought I had been tumbled down a steep hill, rolled end over end all night, every bone in my body – and especially my head – aching. Well and truly sick.

While I did not embrace this turn of events with the miserable, yet eager, satisfaction of my childhood, when illness meant a break from schoolwork and ample time to read, I did take advantage of a day off spent entirely in bed.

The following day, when my dizzy head had abated enough to let me sit up, I got down to the business of reading, and spent much of my waking hours in sunny Lima, Peru, following the adventures of Aunt Julia and the Scriptwriter.

I was very pleased that my library had this book (written by Mario Vargas Llosa) in it’s collection, and thus my travels through South America have been kicked off, along with the official start of the Orbis Terrarum Challenge, and of course, good old lionhearted March.

Today I am on the mend, and the sun is out, and there is bright new snow everywhere. Some cheery person just shouted across the library that there are only 60 days until May Day. That’s a fine thought, no matter how much I claim to love the winter. 🙂