desperance (desperance) wrote,


I have mentioned I think herebefore (or possibly elsewherebefore) that I hold it as a truth self-evident, that talking about things only makes them worse.

As witness: woke up this morning - alas! - to find that last night's koff had progressed again already. As if in anticipation, sovay had already gifted me with qoff, as the next progression. So that's what it is, and I would sooner have spent this morning keeping it company on the sofa, but instead we went shopping. Now all I have to do is erect the new garden umbrella and install the base that our previous one never had, which is why our previous one is all broke, and then we'll have shade again for those who like that sort of thing.

Me, you will find me sitting stubbornly outside its ambit, trying to bake all through to my bones. Whatever bug this is, I'm sure it's lurking in my marrow. I will address it internally with toddies, and externally with sunshine. Then it'll be sorry.

In consonant news, I need better honey. When I'm sick, I occasionally revert to a toast-and-honey breakfast, because memory is almost as soothing as the honey itself; but the generic squeezebottle stuff that does fine for cooking and toddying is just not up to snuff for actual eating. There's a honey-merchant at the farmers' market, Saturdays; I may have to interrogate his stock, see what works. I used to love chestnut honey from France, and I'm sure there are chestnut groves in California, but I have only encountered blank looks when I ask for it, so I guess comprehensive testing is on the agenda. Hey-ho.
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