He who coughs last, coughs chest

A new cold has struck me down this week; either that or the one from last week has made a round trip of the office (through O’s frightening loss of voice and D’s throaty phone answering) and landed back on my uvula. I don’t understand how I can cycle a twelve-mile round trip, stop moving, sit down, relax and only then burst into a wild coughing fit. Whine whine whine, I know, but maybe if I’d cycled all the way to Oxford tonight, cycled through the Angel & Greyhound, grabbed a beer from the bar and freewheeled round the table where all my friends were sat then I might have made the 30th birthday party I was meaning to go to.

As a client suggested earlier this week, I’ve been burning the candle at both ends. But neither end is the fun end. How do I find the fun end? If I cut the candle in the middle, does it (a) become two candles and (b) develop a fun end each, in a variation on the behaviour of bar magnets? Does one half of the candle wiggle off and start itself a candle-cast business in the east midlands, while the other half of the candle becomes a homebody and wonders how to make wicks meet? What, most importantly, has someone been putting in my Sudafed, and does K. think it’s going to make me more pliant and willing to wear pink accessories at the wedding?

If it weren’t for being able to play around with Google Maps, and having been given a bottle of Laphroaig 10-year by my employers in return for an inch of my candle, I’d be depressed as well as itchy-chest.

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