I made it back to the gym yesterday, and I'm going again today. Yay me.

Over eight days of bronchitis, I lost a hair over seven pounds. I dearly don't want them back, but this is no way to run a reducing plan. I hardly stirred hand or foot the whole time, so I wonder where the energy went; was it all burned up by the leukocytes labouring away to kill off the infection? That's a lot of calories.

One brother's Christmas parcel has been mailed, and I have purchased a Canada Post pre-paid shipping box for the other, which will go out this afternoon, God willing. Himself has accepted the responsibility of acquiring and wrapping Christmas prezzies for his siblings (for the first time since we got married), so I'm off the hook for that. Christmas dinner is planned, though Himself keeps moving the goalposts: "Could we have maybe some gravlax for a forspeise?" (If we have gravlax, that means I made gravlax. There is no gravlax in the freezer. The gravlax proposal is a non-starter.) Besides, I can eat only so much, and there's already both a duck and a Christmas pud on the menu.

I'm still coughing, but no longer with the ugly stridor of "status asthmaticus". So the drugs are working, and all I have to do (the worst five words in the English language) is hork up the rest of the gunk out of my poor, suffering lungs. Onward and upward.