I'm sick. I've been sick for the last few days, and I've been unconscious for all but three hours out of the last fifty.

I think it's the chess teaching. One of the schools I taught at on Monday was Epidemic Central, and I neglected to bring my insulation suit and oxygen mask. As a result, I've lost a few days and am still feeling astoundingly average.

In the past I had a particular ritual to cope with being very sick. I'd resign myself to feeling bad for a while, and I'd take the opportunity to reread The Lord of the Rings. But I can't do that any more. I don't have that much time. It's a very long book. And it's now been turned into a movie that I have very little interest in seeing.

I've been dreaming about living somewhere quieter and greener. Somewhere healthier. I can no longer sustain the illusion that Fitzroy's pollution levels "aren't too bad."

I've also been dreaming about small, juicy apples. And leg warmers, distant mountains, dripping taps, obscure golf courses, hidden doors, derelict mansions, the longer novels of the nineteenth century and Flashdance. It's all been very confusing. I hate being sick. Anything that makes me dream of Flashdance should be strictly avoided.