When I woke up this morning, there were no hoofprints on my ceiling, but I felt as if hooves were thumping inside my head. Overnight I seem to have been transformed into the Sick Man of Europe. Lemsip has been deployed. Andrew Motion famously drinks Lemsip to oil the wheels of his poetic gift, such as it is, but I am afraid it has no similar salutary effect upon me. There may be Hooting Yard silence for a few days until I recover the will to live.
Meanwhile, here is a quotation to ruminate upon, from Eric Thompson at Laudator Temporis Acti: “Misanthropy and cave-dwelling go hand in hand”.
>hooves were thumping inside my head
Surely Hoofbegone!â„¢ would be more use than Lemsip, or (Phlegmsip as it’s known where I come from)? Whatever the nostrum of choice, be well soon, Mr Key.
Ah, the Snot Fairy waves her tragic wand…
May I recommend palliating your torso with luna caustic..?
I do hope your Easter eggs don’t go fusty before you have recovered sufficiently enough to eat them…
O.S.M.