The Spasmodic Crunches

Unnnnnnnnncleeeeeeeeean! Unnnnnnncleeeeeeean!

Bloke with a lurrrrrrgi! Unnnncleeeeeean!

Yes, you heard me - while of course it's the case that d has had a lurgi in perfect, get-on-with-it quietness and suffered appallingly while demanding dick-all in special privileges, I'm been going Total Sick Bloke for...well, actually since all the coughing and spangle-seeing of that long uphill walk I detailed last time. Sick as a dog. Useless. Sleeping hours of the day away, mostly because consciousness was such a pain in the chest. Spending additional hours in the bath because of the heat and the healing vapoury gloriousness of Olbas bubbles.

Have done precisely bog-all by way of exercise since that walk - first because of deadlines and then because of all this joyful lurgification.

Which means I have no logical way to explain to you how, getting on the Nazi Scales this morning (technically pre-bathroom, for those interested in the ins and outs of the thing, but it didn't seem especially worth waiting for), and saw:

17st 2.

Down...three and a quarter pounds.

All I can tell you is either this flu has a tapewormy element that has yet to be diagnosed, in which case I'm frankly happy to feed the fucker for a while before the nastiness of coaxing it out one way or another, or all the hacking coughs have acted like spasmodic stomach crunches, and I've been getting more of an enforced workout over the last seven weeks than I could possibly imagine, cos damn! Two pounds short of the next milestone, and into the Sixteens. That will be something to do a happy dance about - and happy dances will be altogether more possible than they have been, too. So yay. The lurgi of apparent weightloss has been an utter bastard, but the results are altogether rather more pleasing than the experience. Onward - to the border of Sixteeniness!