I had such plans.

After a particularly frantic week at my day job, I’d meant to hunker down on Friday, and for as much of the weekend as possible, working on my next playwriting project. I’ve only just started the actual drafting, but I’ve been researching and planning it out for a few months now (and thinking over the idea for several years now). And this was to be when I made my first real push.

And then, Thursday evening, I felt it. The first tickle in the throat. A cold. And blossoming fast at that.

Not to worry, I thought to myself. I have off Friday anyway. Take care of a few errands, then sit down and write in between sips of herbal tea and chicken soup. Not a problem.

But this was one of the bad colds. One of those 48-hours of wooziness colds. One of those colds that make everything taste different, and makes it feel like you’re walking through jello. One of those brutal, mind-fogging colds, for which the only cure seems to be blatant procrastination.

So, a few clicks and keystrokes, and my internet was up, and a quick computer game was to be had. And while I’d thought I’d only distract myself for a few minutes, the fetid miasma rapidly enveloping my brain made it impossible for me to concentrate on anything else. Several hours passed by, with me as mindless as the undead creatures I was battling in Plants vs. Zombies.

I felt guilty. All the work I’d planned to do was going undone. And not just work on my own projects. Just about everybody I know is lobbying and protesting and engaged with our trouble world in one way or another, and any chances I had of doing so over the past few days was rapidly fading. But I had to face it – this cold was bad enough that I couldn’t do these things even if I wanted to.

Well, it’s out of my system now.

So I promise, Gentle Reader, this time next week you’ll be reading about new projects aplenty. Which is as much a promise to myself as anything.

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