A Gothic Novel
Wednesday. The tickle is now a sore throat. I have no idea if the dinner Tuesday evening made it better or worse. A good dinner. You learn more than you bargain for about your fellow workers when there's an unlimited bar and everyone lets their hair down. I wonder what they in turn learned about me? Nothing they haven't suspected, I suppose, the suspicious swine. Hi, ho: on to work we go; with sore throat in tow; and I've volunteered to help the wife of a friend with an educational group of some kind by shooting pictures Thursday evening over at Preservation Park. What the hell, the weekend is coming. A weekend is always coming. I say I'll be there, sore throat or no.
Do I detect waffling?
There is a code. For younger children you don't flake out. So I won't flake out. But the evening may be an adventure.
Thursday. I left the office just after noon and crashed with the aching sinuses and the aching head and the chills and the everything else, although these symptoms grew less as the afternoon progressed. Did I shoot pictures at Preservation Park? I did. The chills came on as I was walking back to the car, but overall a successful adventure. Unless everyone I met there comes down with this whatever I've got. I'm sweating now, it's late (for me) so unless things change overnight I'll skip work tomorrow and get better. Whatever it is that starts out with a tickle in the throat generally takes its time and often likes to build to a crescendo. Writing is probably futile when your head feels like this.
Friday. A less than good night last night, no question of going into the office this morning, but I think its reached bottom unless this slight congestion in the chest blooms into something more ambitious by morning. I seem to recall “starts with a tickle” in the throat can deliver surprises. Just when you thought you were reading a short story it turns out to be a (Gothic) novel.