The story so far, dear readers, is not for the faint-hearted.
Our heroine, who has been battling a spring cough and lurgy, decided to take action last night and informed all and sundry of her intention to sleep in on Saturday morning. Nothing would get her out of bed, she declared, but the last trump.
Enter the morning, in a burst of sunlight - and the knowledge that one of the heroes of the epic, Destructoboy, has not only thrown up in his bed, but has then made a conscious decision to sleep in it.
Strangely, this had the effect of galvanising a very sick mother into motion and imploring the Accountant to (and I quote) "Will you stop wandering around with that damn pillow, you are spilling vomit everywhere!"
Strange how every time I consider actually getting something approaching 8 hours of sleep, something like this happens.
So I have the traditional spring/summer lurgy, which up until this morning consisted of feeling a bit yuk, and a dry polite cough. This morning, however, I sound like someone who has been smoking five packs a day and sleeping rough for the last 10 years. Not nice.
In happier news, I am a gnats whisker from finishing Radiate, and am devoting the next seven days to finishing WIPs - so hopefully, the Clapotis and a pair of socks will be off the needles.
Then I will throw myself into Christmas knitting (already organised), and Christmas presents, and into trying very hard to keep all the balls I am juggling in the air - instead of dropping the lot.
There are no pictures in this post.
Aren't you glad?