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| The Autumn Goddess by Anon |
And a veritable Vernal for those in the Southern Hemisphere.
Entering that wonderful time of colourful arboretums, open hearths and frost-pinched, bright blue mornings.
Sadly writing this from my bed, dedicating the day to the great god of air, Salbutamol, giver of life. Asthmatics and bronchitis don't mix. Usually I get one cold a year. This year I've had two nasty ones in as many months. One before I went to Ireland, and one when I got back. Moral of the story? Move to Ireland.
Simples.
I'm more out of breath after climbing the stairs than a 90-year-old in a French sauna. In all honesty, given longer life expectancy and better diet, most nonagenarians look like Mo Fara in comparison. I swear, I was never this unfit when I smoked.
In an attempt to shift the elephant that has been sitting on my chest, I've taken to drastic measures. I've been swallowing lung butter, which is indeed a euphemism for phlegm in its own right, but also a concoction of manuka honey left covering slices of raw onion overnight. It goes all runny by morning. Chuck in some turmeric and swallow as many tablespoons as you can in a day without barfing.
I've also taken to neti potting my nose. This is a fabulous invention, although disturbingly like (and I can't honestly draw a comparison here) stuffing a small penis up your nose. It's basically a nose irrigator using saline solution. Fabulously awesome.
So, yes, splendid equinox all round. Still, enough whinging. I'm a total bloke when it comes to being ill, although recent studies suggest that Man Flu does indeed exist.
I am embracing the recent change in weather. Chances of sunburn are significantly reduced, meanwhile chances of hot chocolate, roaring fires and mulled wine are on the rise. The best thing about winter is the long dark nights in which to write. I'm a night writer, so the more night there is, the more my imagination flows.
I'm more out of breath after climbing the stairs than a 90-year-old in a French sauna. In all honesty, given longer life expectancy and better diet, most nonagenarians look like Mo Fara in comparison. I swear, I was never this unfit when I smoked.
In an attempt to shift the elephant that has been sitting on my chest, I've taken to drastic measures. I've been swallowing lung butter, which is indeed a euphemism for phlegm in its own right, but also a concoction of manuka honey left covering slices of raw onion overnight. It goes all runny by morning. Chuck in some turmeric and swallow as many tablespoons as you can in a day without barfing.
I've also taken to neti potting my nose. This is a fabulous invention, although disturbingly like (and I can't honestly draw a comparison here) stuffing a small penis up your nose. It's basically a nose irrigator using saline solution. Fabulously awesome.
So, yes, splendid equinox all round. Still, enough whinging. I'm a total bloke when it comes to being ill, although recent studies suggest that Man Flu does indeed exist.
I am embracing the recent change in weather. Chances of sunburn are significantly reduced, meanwhile chances of hot chocolate, roaring fires and mulled wine are on the rise. The best thing about winter is the long dark nights in which to write. I'm a night writer, so the more night there is, the more my imagination flows.
We all know that there is one story that needs to be completed. To fulfil my oath this year, I need to complete Blood Rose before 1st January. Another 30,000 words should do it. On good form, I reckon I can manage that within two months, though literature is no place for mathematics.
So, here's to a productive Autumn. As of tomorrow I'm going to attempt to pick up my 1k a day regime if I can. Though, feeling like this, 500 is likely to be enough pressure for the time being.
I am totes excited about this one. It's amazeballs. Can't wait to get back to writing it.
Also, I miss oxygen.
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