It's 2.54 am - awake after a sleep of some sort of about an hour. My body clock tells me it's 8pm, just after dinner and resting on the settee with the SOG/MOG (Silly Ole Git/Miserable Ole Git) watching Gardener's World.
I recalled the 11 hours of agony from London to Hong Kong sitting next to a fattish lady who was sniffling and coughing. I'm stuffing myself with Vitamin C and Echinacea to ward off any possible infection. I have been re-acquainting myself with my books and files and found this poem. Very apt for this season of colds and stuffed up noses.
Raid,raid, go away,
Dote cub back udtil I say
That wote be for beddy a day.
And wot's the good of sudlight, dow?
When I ab kept id bed.
Ad rubbed ad poulticed for to cure
The cold that's id be head?
I've beed out od the kitched lawd
With dothig od be feet,
Ad subthig's coffig id be deck
An all be head's a heat.
Tell Bay to dot bake such a doise:
Dote rud the cart so hard!
For tissudt fair, just wud of us
To rud arowd the yard.
Ad wed I try to say a tale,
Or sig a little sog,
The coffig cubs idtoo be deck
Ad tickles dredful strog.
Ad wed is father cubbig obe?
He'd dot be log he said-
If this is jist a cold it bust
Be awful to be dead!
Oh what a log, log day it is!
Ibe tird of blocks ad books;
I've cowted all the ceilig lides,
I've thought of sheep ad chooks.
I've drawd a bad's face with a bo.
I've drawd a pipe to sboke:
Just wed I thought I was asleep
I wedt ad though I woke!
What's the good of sudlight dow,
And what's the good of raid?
Ad wot's the good of eddythig
Wed all your head's a paid?
Raid, raid go away,
Ad dote cub back udtil I say,
Ad that wote be for beddy a day.
by Furnley Maurice
I think I've figured it out and I shall go to bed or have my breakfast.