As predictably as Christmas itself, I'm sick.

It's OK.

You draw the drapes, turn off the phone, sip Lemsip and whisky, sleep for a day or two, listen to the sounds from outside and the ticking of the radiator.

You shiver and shake sometimes. Realized it first with a cold sweat in the Misty Mountain yesterday noon- running errands. It must have been the brats at Sundays family party- with their germs.

I will sometimes rise and watch Columbo.

I reach for books and put them back again

But when you're ill- Bukowski is best- he wrote good poems. Ones with lines like

'gravy barks like a dog' and the paper is always fine.

He's very fond of animals- not so keen on people.

Gravy can bark like a dog.