Bronchial Tubeway Army

It’s early on a Hogmanay morning. We are about to kiss goodbye to 2017. It’s been an interesting year. It seems to me that time continues to accelerate.  To Infinity and beyond. The calendar seems intent on racing toward 2020.  I’m wondering if I’ll manage to shoehorn in a few events and make any meaningful inroads into my own personal bucket list, not that I have one.  Terrible phrase. Society and politics are all over the place. Maybe I should apply for an Irish passport.   
I was given a pressie at Christmas of a day out at a sportive entitled the Tour De Peak, a 60 mile romp around the best inclinations Derbyshire has to offer.  That’s in May. I also fancy the Loch Katrine half and might venture further afield for off road events. I notice comments on gender etc in the entry blurb for Katrine. Not seen that before. But seems the half is full already, so might be the full 26 miles. Better value anyway!
I’ve watched a pile of tele. over this past few days; and it has been a pile. That's not really from choice. I’ve been laid up in bed for 3 days with a cold. Some people call it manflu. I had a sore throat on Boxing Day as we wandered along the snowy ridge at Simonside for a walk. The next day my nose was tripping me and I retired with Vicks, a box of tissues and the tv remote controller. This is, however, a quality cold. It’s a big, ballsy virus who has moved in and wants to make itself at home. It's brought all its mates. It’s not welcome. Not welcome at all.

With the frequency of colds in recent months, I have considered beginning a list of colds, giving them names, like they do with storms. This one would be called a *u&8#in t$”* of a cold. I am now an exhausted and bored invalid. By day three I might have been attracted to snorting the lemsip powder like it was a wrap, rather than mixing it into a steamy tincture if I thought it would improve the efficacy of the supposed remedy. Mrs Mac actually questioned whether stopping in bed was the best option. She postulated that it might indulge the virus, making the effects worse.  I don’t think so, however. Blidy cheek. My sick bed does not represent the Waldorf for germs, well at least not that I’m aware.  The room service is too poor for a start. The amount of clagg I’m producing would be more than enough to wallpaper the bedroom and still have some left to fill half the potholes in the county. I wonder if the highways agency might hire me. The BBC might cover it; certainly regional news should. I feel I should get Vera in to investigate.  Maybe make an appearance as a B celebratory or get grilled by Kirsty Wark on a late show.

If the 11k is on tomorrow (he said listening to the blustery wind outside) I will find myself on camera duty. As a result, I have been boning up between coughs, grockles and splutters, on how to use the Nikon. I do miss the Panasonic, however. I’m not really a fan of twiddling exposure settings and twisting dials. Not a camera anorak. I think I need a longer lense. I hope the lights good. I hope I remember to remove the lense cap.

I have also read the Marie Kondo book on tidying up so there could be some changes when I manage to get out of this snot ridden hell hole. I have made some serious inroads into Mrs Craddock. I should finish the novel off today. I have watched any number of films, but this morning I have happened upon Sooty and another kids programme called BottomKnocker Street. I bet you didn’t know such programmes existed.  One was lamer than the other, but not by much. If I was subjected to these with any regularity I would want to comfort eat as well.  Today is day 5 of the effin cold (needs to be said in a big brother accent). Al is still in bed as dawn breaks. The others are still asleep. The snow has gone outside and its time for a cuppa.  Perhaps I will put the radio on and turn the google box off for a bit.  Dino and Dina has just started. Guff.  Am I VERY grumpy?