Drat

Drat

On a stifling afternoon when only a bruised sky in the distance offered any hope for relief from the heat, I was making my way along the sidewalk, still smiling in delight from all the new autumn treasures I had just seen in the yarn shoppe, when I had the uncomfortable sensation that I was being watched.  I had felt this several times during the past week - shopping for Silver Queen corn in the farmer’s market,  serenely waiting on a good friend at a white clothed table at lunchtime, even once while sitting at my desk, clad in pajamas, shopping for new boots on the Internet.  A sharp turn around revealed nothing tangible, only a strange, greenish shadow that seemed to dart around corners each time that I looked, and, maybe,  an almost inaudible echo of a rather wicked laugh.   These were mere figments, most likely, but I was nonetheless left with an unsettled feeling, and a nagging wee wish to run far away.

But then one evening, sitting snugly on the sofa with a book in my hand, and Edward curled up at my feet, it happened. 

 I was caught unawares, with no means of escape. 

 I swallowed, and my throat was on fire. 

And an ache suddenly started at the tips of my toes, working its malevolent way up the length of my spine. 

The Summer Cold had grabbed me at last.  

Drat.

Immediately, I mentally thumbed through my schedule.  Nothing of importance in the offing for the next few days.  I laid out my favourite pair of white cotton pajamas, straightened the stack of new books by my bed.  I fluffed up that bed to a blissful, downy height and sat a cup of honeyed tea on top of those books.  And then, I climbed in.

Ever the Pollyanna, I reasoned that the weather is too noxious for any outside play, and those books have been calling me for ages.  Edward is the world’s best companion when I am feeling poorly, loving nothing more that to lay atop the bed with his big head on my feet.  And The Songwriter really makes the most wonderful nurse, chicken soup included. 

 So all in all, things could be much worse. 

 But still.  

A Summer Cold. 

 Drat.

                                                                                         

                                                                                         

 "I was sick and lay a-bed, 

I had two pillows at my head, 

And all my toys beside me lay, 

To keep me happy all the day......."

from The Land of Counterpane by Robert Louis Stevenson