Well, the links are back, and it's all thanks to Dave who generously gave his time to trawling through my disgusting html, and is great, even if he only updates his blog once every four years. He did it in spite of his hacking COUGH OF DEATH, which I had the privilege of having spewed over me on Tuesday night, courtesy of Chestal Region Infections Inc., with whom Dave is a client. He saw their range of lung bacteria and thought to himself, "I'll have some of that," which he then dutifully shared out. We are now all ill...but then again it could just be a repeat of that time that our friend Emer had cancer and we all starting developing cancerous symptoms in sympathy. (Boy were our faces red! She's dead now.) But truly, I have become infected. (I can tell because my fingernails ache.) In the words of the great Adrian Mee, "My bones are practically dust, mon cherie."

And so here I sit, languishing at my desk, Victorian style, wearing some kind of hideous whalebone corset or whatever, inhaling arsenic from the dye in the wallpaper, coughing up blood onto my spotless starched bedsheets...this fantasy got out of control fast.

I am thinking about eating beans on toast. I have a little can of baked beans in my handbag, as every lady does. But I have no toast. I have no toast because I went to the shop this morning and the ATM was out of service, and all I had was 2 cents in my wallet. When I write 2 cents, everything in me wants to write 2p, because 2p is so much more what I am used to. My mother just gives right in to that desire, incidentally; as far as she is concerned we are still using pounds and pence. Her new blouse cost thirty pounds, wasn't that a bargain? Yes mother, but in what COUNTRY?

But back to the beans. I feel certain that the ATM will be feeling better now, as its repair was taking place as I stood there sadly in the shop with only 2 cents to my name. But I would have to walk there now to get the money and the bread, and then walk back to my building and up the three flights of stairs to the canteen, and then, you know, toast the bread, and butter it too, and put it on a plate. By the time I got all that done it'd be close of business and they'd be booting me out of the building, surely.

But the hole in my stomach compels me. Like the power of Christ compelled the demon out of that chick in that movie! Yeah, my life is one long horror scene. (I use baked beans to fake the guts.)

neuro-praxis -- She Beans Walking Around All Night