Better, thanks, Stilly. The cough is retreating slowly but surely, and should be reduced to “not sick” state by next week. (For the record, the cough never goes away completely. When I catch a cold, it goes into its Mr Hyde phase — loud, convulsive, uncontrollable, and likely to produce quantities of green crud. In its Dr Jekyll phase, when I’m not sick, it’s a persistent dry scratch.)

Two large fruitcakes are baked and ready for their last dose of whisky before delivery to The Brothers. A third is under way, its fruit component macerating in whisky and the juice of an orange and a lemon. I’ll keep that one; it’ll last me till Easter.

Proper winter weather is now in full swing, with temperatures well below freezing at the warmest time of day and a wind from the northwest that will take the ears off you if you’re not careful.

I now have a doctor — oops, “primary care physician” — and consequently feel far more relaxed about the whole asthma-in-winter situation with my access to the dope that keeps me breathing now secured. Next week I’m off to the asthma specialist for my annual pulmonary function test — wheee! Such fun!

Again, the Ontario health care system pulled off the miracle feat of meeting basic maintenance requirements just in the nick of time, i.e., when my prescription refills were almost exhausted. I got lucky with this move: only three months to get rostered with a general practitioner (aka family doctor). When Edmund and I moved to Stratford, we went two and a half years without a doc.