Hot and raining hard in Stratford. Random pops and thuds outside ended fairly early last night and have not resumed — fireworks are no fun on a wet Sunday morning in Ontario.

The stomach ailment of last week (and this week, damn it) is apparently a new virus in town. One of the priests at church also had it — the kicked-in-the-belly feeling at onset is very distinctive — and has needed two weeks of recuperation to feel fully himself again. Also widowed and on his own at home, he was scared enough to go the hospital, where they tested him for all manner of weird shit and came up blank, except that he was obviously sick as a very sick thing. So, a virus.

But not *just* a virus — I think we know better than that by now. Smallpox is a virus. COVID is a virus.

I’m a bit weak (good thing no vocal acrobatics were required today at church) and I can’t eat much, not that I want to. Lunch has been a plate of carefully poached asparagus and a single small cookie. I might consider a small serving of oatmeal around tea time. There’s a chicken cutlet in the fridge that I had originally intended to eat last week, and that will be supper. More would be foolhardy.

The rain gives me all the excuse I need to spend the afternoon with an audiobook and the cats, if they choose to join me in the comfy chair.