I hate being this weak. The older I get, the more I turn into my father. Which is odd. I never really got to know the guy before he died in 1980.
He wasn’t that fond of kids and just as I was attaining a sort of manhood and he could finally start to relate to me a bit, he upped and died of a heart attack.
But anyway, I’ve inherited his stubbornness (as have my #1 son and his son). Don’t ever tell us to do, say or believe anything – we’ll eat your fucking arm off.
This flu’s a complete pain in the hole. Today, I’m back at work and I’ve had the same headache since about four o’clock. Paracetamol isn’t even touching it; I need something strong enough to involve withdrawal symptoms!
Still, I finish in less than twelve hours and I fully intend to devote the next two days to lying in bed, thriving on albums I haven’t played in a while.
My appetite seems to be returning too, which is groovy. I’ve eaten so little since I went down with this.
Maybe tomorrow, I’ll be able to read once more, too. I’m almost halfway through a Jo Nesbo novel (‘the leopard’, fact-enthusiasts) and I canny wait to get my skull working again and tear back into it.
Hmmm. Feels like my mojo’s returning, sing hosannah!

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