Of Scotch and Lemsip
Flu, which I had thought was just a cold but has now confirmed itself, yes, to indeed be flu, has fucked me up royal fashion and I'm now consigned to drinking Lemsip with a dash of Scotch (alas, I ran out of Teachers and had to use some of my Grouse, which is a shame as I rather like it and it's wasted on Lemsip), hoping that my eyes will stop burning and that I can keep warm enough to not have to get into a red hot bath again today (not that I have anything against red hot baths but they're not good for you, you know).
Anyway, what news? Not so much I guess. Writing: done some, good. Managed to finish a story for the Machine of Death collection, whose deadline is the 31st of March and for which I was hoping to maybe finish another piece, though at this rate I'll be lucky to get the first one edited and polished on time. It went onto the page surprisingly quickly, so you never know, it might actually be good. Needs a little tweaking though.
And I'll only be able to get round to tweaking it if I stop fiddling around with the new version of this site, which I've written using Django and which I'm in the process of prodding holes in. So far so nothing yet broken. We shall see. No promises as to a delivery date, but I do suggest that all you Pythonists (and istas) out there check Django out. It is, I think it's safe to say, the collective erogenous zones of just about every species of summer insect going, and I don't say that very often.
What else can I say through the paracetamol fumes wafting from my cup? Err... nothing much. Galactica finishes on Sunday (boo), but Who starts a week on Saturday. Huzzah.
Right. Bed again, I'm afraid, lest being upright overcome me and I just fall asleep where I sit.
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