Flying close to the sun...

Flying close to the sun...

Boxed in with bloody bastard bronchitus, and feeling like a nun's twat after a long climb up the bell tower stairs. Don't ask...

I hate being crook, I'm very bad at being crook, I'm not even good with other crook people. So I'm ill-tempered and selfish. Did I ever deny that? Ask any of my wives... at least ask the ones with their heads still on. I hate coughing, I hate the thick, oily, slithery, resinous taste of a deeply-mined gob of phlegm... but I do like to watch it struggle for air in the toilet bowl.

The missus is still buggered, and moans a lot. All the time, really... genuine moaning, I mean, not the usual pommie whinging stuff. Poor bugger.. I feel sorry for her, but ya can't let them know that ya sympathise, right, or they step up the act. I help her when I can. I take out the rubbish once a week. I cook. I help her lift the pots into the sink to be washed up. I get her every second drink... am I a saint, or what?

What a load of twaddle this is. I'm off to get a third glass of this teriible boxed red wine. It's from Griffith in NSW, Australia, probably the worst wine-growing area in the country. Inhabited by Sicilians and Italians who hate us, and inflict their crap plonk on us by making the price irresistable... they know Kiwis have a reputation for long pockets. We're cheapskates, let's be honest. If Griffith can make its vin ordinaire, box it, ship it to NZ and retail it for $10 less per box than the equivilent Kiwi crap you understand what I'm saying.

But I'll drink it. Anything, really...

Iccy