No sooner had I recovered from the summer flu than I caught a cold off Ourdert. Colds are not necessarily unpleasant. Yesterday afternoon, for instance, I was in a floaty, semi-detached condition which almost amounted to an altered state of consciousness- and altered states of consciousness are interesting. Ailz didn't think so- as she was trying to steer me round the supermarket at the time and I'd keep disappearing off down aisles- but we got the shopping done and I didn't buy anything stupid. I was fit enough to make tea- basa fillets with a crusty pesto topping- but after that my sinuses started acting up and I was fit for nothing but watching an ancient episode of Jonathan Creek on TV Gold- which was enjoyable in the way toasty soldiers spread with marmite are enjoyable By bedtime I was definitely feverish- and my dreams- all night long- centred on a Hollywood production of Twelfth Night starring John Wayne and Judy Garland- and featuring men in Hawaiian shirts. At one stage, unable to breathe, I came down stairs, made myself a cup of tea and read a few pages of Balzac. Yes, I'm back with Balzac again- specifically the Rise and Fall of Cesar Birotteau. The tea relieved my sinuses and I went back upstairs for more Shakespeare in beach wear. This morning I feel rougher than I've done at any stage of my protracted indispostion but- never mind- this too will pass.