Being, as regular readers will be all too aware, The World's Sickliest Man, I am currently ill. Fortunately, my maladiedu jour is just your common-or-garden dizziness and sickness. Nothing that a day in bed, fortified by black coffee, Sports Mixture, and Alison Krauss won't, if not cure, then at least render bearable. A change, after all, is as good as a break.
Idly flicking through my computer folders this morning, I came across one with the mysterious title "New book". It's not the only such folder lurking on there: I've at least five of them at the minute, only one of which could be described as a "work-in-progress" with anything other than heavy sarcasm. For the most part, they are just jottings of notes and half-ideas - some little more than (what I no doubt naively think is) a clever title.
