My life has come to a grinding halt because I have come down with bronchitis. Again.

It's not too bad right now, but we're only at Day Two. By tonight or tomorrow morning, I will know whether I will recover quickly, like a normal person, or suffer through Christmas with the asthmatic's long-lasting version of a lung affliction.

I sang in a performance of Handel's "Messiah" on Saturday night, and the alto to my left hacked through the whole thing; at times, I thought she would derail the soprano soloist. I should have been more worried about myself; the soprano soloist could not have been derailed by a bomb on the tracks, and here I am with another fucking dose of fucking bronchitis!

Two batches of fruitcake are baked, soused with brandy, and wrapped for travel and storage. Only the most minimal Christmas shopping has been done, however: books for The Brothers.

The house is comparatively neat, and Himself washed the kitchen floor the other day. (Hurrah!) I will consider myself a net contributor to the greater good today if I manage to get the laundry done and change the bed. Leaving the house is out of the question; the cough is so disgustingly raucous that even the politest person in Creation could not pretend to ignore it.