All week I’ve been intending to write something vaguely intelligent about copyright, after discovering this interesting link here, but it just hasn’t happened. Then I was going to ramble on about the importance of Googling your own name regularly, which apart from being a hoot finding out about your alter-egos (mine is a glass paperweight artist from New York with a range called ‘Little Worlds’, there are a lot of batty arteests and act-ors with my name it appears) is necessary as you may occasionally find an article you wrote years ago reprinted without your permission, then get paid $200 when you kick up a polite fuss. And other stuff about how the virtual world sees you. But that just never transpired because I am DYING.

So I have been soldiering on all week, figuring that bed-rest is for FOOLS and WEAKLINGS, when in actual fact it is the only thing I can actually do today. I was writing last night until 11:30pm, which is never a good thing either, and 20 mins’ restful perusal of Strunk & White’s Elements of Style wasn’t really the best light reading on the bus to the Land of Nod. So I was up half the night with the sweats, and the other having crazy dreams about houses with too many rooms and public bathrooms with bad drainage, as usual.

So it’s a DISASTER all round, and I’m sitting here in my trackie by the heater, because the SKY is at last FALLING IN and there’s nothing I can do about it.


4 thoughts on “DYING I am DYING

  1. My Dear Bic! I hope you have not the dreaded palsy, or St Vitus’s Dance. Or indeed the Galloping Pneumonia I had last month (I have brilliant new medication now, and am no longer coughing up blood, thanks be to the Lord). I must do some work, anon, and stop reading blogs. But speaking of dreams, remind me to tell you a funny story about my cat. And get better soon. Bik x

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