I can’t do it.
I had planned to present you, dear reader, with a more serious and carefully argued essay on the question of democracy, as it has been shown up and misused in the sadly post-Brexit and hopefully not pre-Trump window. Its tag line was going to be the idea that ‘democratic’ seems to be defined as ‘the result I wanted’.
Notes had been scribbled and juggled and some progress made on pulling the themes into a brief and coherent piece.
But a week and a half ago I feared I was possibly terminally ill (or at least terminally hypochondriac and in fear, as was Sharon in Kath & Kim, of being put on a broad-spectrum placebo), then the tests came back and I got a stay of liberation and now, just as I’m ready to be creative and even argumentative again, I get the second rhinovirus in as many months.
My nose is full of runny snot, my eyes of achy pain and my brane of sludgy soup; my knees are achy-wibbly and my left buttock has gone off for a holiday in the Bahamas, despite or perhaps because of the rest of me not having a passeportout. And the sneezing has got the pain under the rib which may have been the stones of gall niggling again. And the fambly comes to visit at the weekend.
So next week, then. Democracy. Or something else.
Bed and generic lemon-flavoured paracetemol drink.