It's probably stupid that I am advertising this, but if you want to hear me blather on for an hour or so about the role of women in the bible, I shall be doing so publicly this evening in An Tobar in NUI Maynooth for the Maynooth Christian Union. At around 6pm.
Is it ironic that I actually am sick now? Perhaps it is an Alanis kind of ironic. I can't recall feeling sicker in a long, long time. I woke up around seven yesterday morning and my throat was entirely constricted, I had a temperature and was pained from top to toe. Even though my symptoms are different to Dave's, I choose to blame him.
So I spent all of yesterday in bed feeling very sorry for myself, tossing and turning in a suitably dramatic fever, while the sun mocked me from outside. I dragged myself out of bed somewhere around 6pm and by golly, flu or no flu, I stuck a lemon up that chicken's arse and roasted its guts out. (I had intended to cook it on Friday, but instead I went round to my friend Vicki's house, where I stuffed myself with her incredible home-made pizza and allowed her husband to ply me with beer. It was great.) So it turns out I make a mean roast chicken, even if it was rather belated. It really was good - very moist and delicious - which surprised me, because my first attempts at cooking endeavours invariably end up being slop.
So here I sit in my slippers, nightdress and dressing-gown, in the tv room in the middle of the day, looking like a cross between my mother (every day I look more like her, I swear) and a homeless bag-lady. I have drugged myself to the hilt with Solfadeine, Vitamin C, Zinc, and any other drug-shaped thing I could find hanging around the house. Because, I badly need to be healed. In a couple of hours I am singing solo at a student-service in the Church of Ireland, Maynooth, and then a couple of hours after that I am boarding a flight to Edinburgh for cúpla lá of debauchery, Scottish style. Right now I feel like death warmed up and I have exactly two hours and forty minutes to pack and reach prime-health before leaving for the service rehearsal. No bother there then!
Mmm. Thassit for now. Updates on whether or not Scottish people are all like Rab C Nesbitt or not to follow, presuming I am not dead by the time I get back.
neuro-praxis -- You Graft My Soul Upon Your Grief