It all began with zumba. You can laugh if you want, I would, if I could without coughing. I love zumba, I bound around the room like Tigger in the Ten Acre Wood attempting ersatz cha-cha-cha, convinced it's all really good for me. Unfortunately I have a constitution like one of the more irritating minor characters in 19th Century novels - Jane Austen's weedy Mr Woodhouse, or EM Forster's tiresome Charlotte. (Actually Room with a View was 20th Century, just, but vaporising females are timeless and probably inspired the routine treatment of all women's ailments as hysteria.) Anyway, I can't stand drafts, and I knew as I felt the fan fiercely on me in lovely Linsey's class a week last Wednesday that what others were finding a nice cooling breeze on our perspiring breasts would probably, for me, be the start of something sinister. One hot shower later and I'd already got sore throat. After two days this had simmered painfully into what is politely called a 'chesty cough' but I had a busy week of walks, visits, theatre trips... Well Mr Woodhouse and Charlotte Bartlett could have warned me of the folly of that! By Good Friday I had to admit defeat. I've now withdrawn from everything nice lined up for Easter and still feel, in the words of my father, like a corpse resenting the resurrection.
So this is the under-cover edition. Duvet cover. Nothing worth reporting but I feel better for getting it off my chest. Ha ha, get the metaphor? Hope it works.