… a sick day. A rainy, autumnal sick day. One where I wake up to nothing other than the sound of pouring rain on my balcony, my eyes opening not to sunshine but to grey. I am clad in long-sleeved, long-legged, not-quite-as-thick-as-flannel-but-close pajamas and wrapped round with 2 or 3 thick, wool blankets, a pillow or two on either side of my head. There are no plans. I’m recovering from illness, so I have a great excuse to do nothing. Nothing, that is, except watch I Love Lucy. Yes – episode after episode of I Love Lucy. Which I can watch uninhibited, thanks to last year’s tremendous Christmas gift of the entire DVD collection. So there I am, nice and warm in bed, melodic rain beyond nearby glass doors, the Ricardos and the Mertzes on TV. Oh! And perhaps I’d get up at some point to make pancakes. Add to the picture a plate of scrambled eggs and pancakes – pancakes that turn out PERFECTLY – and a glass - no - a gallon of Tropicana orange juice. Yum. What a day.
I was obviously cold, tired, and nostalgic when I wrote this.
