Here I am, home again from my wanderings. But I'm not really compos mentos (is that spelt correctly, I wonder?) I have returned with yet another ferocious cold, and it's only two weeks since I felt free of the last one. I knew it was coming before I went, and I'd called two friends to help me decide whether to cry off. They both begged me to come anyway, so I did.
It was probably a mistake. I've been on trains and buses between here, London and Leeds, and can just imagine my germs spreading wide from the south to the north of the country. If you are in the UK and have caught my cold, I can only apologise.
For most of the time I was away, I held the worst of it at bay. I was out enjoying myself with people I don't see all that often. I got plenty of fresh air but didn't stay out late. After lunch with a final group of buddies yesterday, when I got back to my daughter's house in South London, I really started to feel rough. Because there were no more jolly jaunts planned, I guess my mind decided I could allow myself to be sick.
So this morning I prepared for the train journey by buying Lockets lozenges and fresh supplies of tissues, and then tucked myself away in the rear-most corner of the railway carriage. And now I'm home and have loads of catching up to do, while all I feel like doing is tucking myself in with a hot water bottle.
So I'll stop writing for now and promise something more interesting for my next post.