I never want to believe that I'm actually sick, but I think, given the sore throat, the stuffed nose, the headache, the fever and the nightmares about assassins and trying to get under the bed to hide from them and not fitting because the damn dog and a stuffed lion were in the way that I can say with confidence that this time, I am truly ill. I am not faking it; I am not a hypochondriac. I always think I'm faking it or being a ridiculous hypochondriac and it sort of shocks me when I turn out to be actually sick.
That's pretty much all I have to say before I creep back off to bed with my echinacea tea. That and I have now read my way through the majority of the oeuvre of Steven Brust and while I love him madly, I am utterly furious that I don't have a copy of Sethra Lavode because I thought that The Lord of Castle Black was the last book in the series, and now, sick as I am, I have to go find a copy. Damn you, Steven Brust.