Post-Holiday Funk

No, it's not a lost album by Sly And The Family Stone. It's a nasty malaise I seem to have picked up. There's no instant remedy it seems (so, no haranguing the patient, thank you). Imagining myself as Doctor Quinn (I said Quinn) Medicine Woman (chamois leather top / lot of hair / cowboy hat), or Hattie Jacques as Matron (that's more like it), I prescribed the following:

Mmmm. Nice, tasty medicine.

(The chips and a lovely vodka tonic, not Lady Married's rack).

Further pick-me-ups included self-administration of a large bollocking and an early night. Now on the road to a complete writing recovery. Thank you, well-wishers.

(Postscript: part of the recovery process was aided by cross-Atlantic Skype. Evil Hurricaine Irene is NY bound. Please leave Brooklyn alone, Irene. It contains a smashing brewery, some nice music venues, and two people I love dearly. Remember - if you're reading, write that inky letter, LouLou. Could be your last chance to write with a proper nib. I am now officially a monger of doom.)