Gifts

The reason for Tuesday's weariness has become increasingly apparent over the past couple of days. We saw my parents off back to Fife yesterday, and I sat myself down to write again, only to assailed by a succession of sneezing fits and a growing soreness at the back of my throat. Last night was one of the most miserable I've spent in years, snivelling and sniffing, coughing and generally unable to doze off. The Horse Doctor had the nerve to say that I hadn't snored at all. I pointed out to her that this was because I'd not actually been asleep.

Today we made a dash into Aberystwyth for caffeine-free drugs - something it's increasingly difficult to get these days. All the over the counter cold remedies are packed full of the stuff to counteract their drowsiness-inducing properties, so that people with all manner of nasty mucal viruses can go about their daily business, spreading same around the globe. It's a conspiracy, I tells you. In the old days, cold remedies helped you sleep, as confining yourself was the best way to stop the spread. Nowadays, Mr Beecham and his mate Lemmy Sip sell you drugs that don't cure, but make you feel like you can just about cope with life. You go out and spread your disease, forcing millions of others to buy yet more drugs. It's so brilliant I wish I'd thought of it.

But caffeine and me don't mix well anymore. I get a tiny little bit from the decaf I drink, and some from the occasional piece of very dark chocolate,* but if I stumble upon a proper coffee, or worse the doses put in daytime cold and flu remedies, I spend the next twenty-four hours wondering why the world is so bright. I had a can of Red Bull once and couldn't sleep for nearly two days.

So night time palliatives for me only. And thankyou, mum, for the Christmas gift that keeps on giving.

* I got a bar of 100% cocoa solids chocolate for Christmas. Now that's dark.