It was three in the morning on Boxing Day. Having straighten up the kitchen sufficiently to prevent hungry cat raids, we were falling into bed when I realized I had the high scratching at the back of my throat that signals coming down with a cold.
I thought I had escaped the cold David had recovered from, in time for Christmas.
I not only had it, but a day later, he had it again. The Great Revolving Christmas Yuck cycled through each of us three more times.
There was a brief moment, both of us awake, when we pledged to observe our personal gift exchange on Epiphany, January 6, the traditional arrival of the Wise Men – the reasoning being that Orthodox Christians wouldn’t mind our sharing their tradition Christmas Day with them. The Wise Men came and went while we were in and out.
The lead-up to the holiday had been more frenetic than usual, and by the Eve of the Day Before, I realized I hadn’t wrapped gifts – and experienced the certain knowledge that I was no longer willing or capable of staying up all night to wrap gifts.
By Boxing Day afternoon, in a brief moment of clarity, I comprehended that anything I wrapped at that point would undoubtedly be contaminated with the Bug From Hell.
We have been celebrating Christmas, ever since, as people come by, which is lovely but embarrassing. It’s all packed away – except for the popcorn cans of bows and ribbons and a single roll of gift wrap awaiting online-purchased gifts in the kitchen. Any day.
Facebook notwithstanding, I believe I am again capable of reasonably lengthy cognitive thinking.
I’m awake, now, and I owe masses of people apologies and grovelings.
Which I am trying to get in, during breathers from the final draft of RETURN TO ZENDA and doing laundry.