Better now, thanks to Prednisone and the world's ugliest antibiotic. I still have next to no appetite, and I have yet to regain the capacity for horizontal sleep, but I'm definitely on the mend. Tonight I take the last 40-mg whack of Prednisone, so I hope this is my last night of sweating and fitful dozing interrupted with coughing fits.

Patrick the Painter has finished the sitting room, and it's just beautiful. I put the furniture back where it belongs last night, and this morning I tottered up and down the basement stairs with trays of china out of the one cabinet affected by this late phase of The Project. Hanging pictures will have to wait; I've had it for today.

It's snowing in Stratford, too, probably part of the same system that's hitting Dorothy's place, and it's expected to continue for
days. Himself wants to go to Sarnia in the morning to watch the Six Nations rugby tournament (not available in Perth County), but he's still sniffling and sneezing. He promised that he would not go if the road conditions are bad, but I am firmly convinced that he will go whatever the roads are like. He can be such a blockhead sometimes.