A his 'n' hers. Hers, a blunt, rude indicator of a Covid bout in full force. Fatigue, muted senses of taste and smell, feeling off. A most unwelcome intruder in our happy house.
Mine, a barely-there mark befitting a fading illness that, on the third time of asking, has been milder than previous memberships of the Covid club. Enough to keep me away from work, going out, and doing most normal things. Tragically, no lawn mowing last weekend for me. I also had to put down the threads I would have weaved into tapestries of political comment this last week, so apologies for the brief interlude of silence. Having munched through my weight in decongestants, paracetemol, and downed a vat's worth of Nightnurse (other respiratory remedies are available), the blighter is almost finished. No word marathons ahoy in the immediate recovery period then, but a few canters around the block should start reappearing hereabouts.
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