No Night Sweats N o  N i g h t  S w e a t s No Night Sweats
Sydney's Post-Punk Bands
I Like Music
Slapp Happy are Terrific
A List of CDs
Text is What I Write
Crime Fiction is Silly
[ Soup ]
Back from the brink, I am, I am. After a week of fighting some dreaded virus and a Thursday afternoon, where I thought that my lungs might actually be in a reasonably healthy condition again, I drifted into an uneasy sleep, punctuated by weird psychotic dreams, vast aching coughing fits and, at the glorious pre-dawn hour (my normal Nth Ryde wake up time) an attack of stomach cramps and the rest (that I'm sure you don't want to hear about). Of course the useless doctor was less than useless on my hurried Friday morning consultation but I've come to expect no results where viral conditions are concerned. I spent the rest of the day and all of  Saturday in some hazy netherworld of sickly cough drops and toilet bowls and my lovely comfy warm bed. And then Annette made me soup - beef and barley to be precise - and it's done me the world of good. At least now I can walk tall, think coherantly and wonder "won't you tell me, where have all the good times gone..."
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