Or how Jane Austen cured my cold.
I enjoyed my extra hour in bed this weekend by waking up at three in the morning with a sore throat. It has been a case of me sounding worse than I feel, but it has meant that I have had all the annoying stuff that comes with having a cold. Bleugh. So Les Miserables was the only suitable thing to read because I did feel miserable (granted probably not as miserable as the characters in this book who have so far spent most of their lives in proverty). EG kindly named me the bug ridden snuffle monster.
So having snuffled my way through work on Monday, I settled down for fifteen minutes of reading Les Miserables only to be interrupted by EG who decided that we should watch Air Crash Investigators, and I have to confess that because of where I am up to in Les Miserables this was the most interesting option of the two. Also one of the pilots had a cold, and at that moment I could empathise.
Having watched half of the programme, I went to spend the rest of the evening watching Bones. Which is brilliant, although my friend and I always make the mistake of sitting down to eat just as they find the body and thus we eat less because we feel so sick. Due to the increasing amount of snuffling that I was producing we didn't watch as much as normal, but it did make me feel better. Bones always makes me feel better, but in this case it could have been the half bar of chocolate that I managed to consume.
Last night the snuffle monster began to retreat, and I enjoyed reading a bit of The Real Jane Austen. So at the moment of writing I think it must be Jane Austen that helped cure my cold. Although it has to be said that the title of bug ridden snuffle monster has now been transferred to EG.
Looking back at the weekend I am disappointed that the snuffle monster stole some reading time, but I did still manage to finish A Book of Narrative Verse, so not all was lost.
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