cold horror

My nose is full of custard. My head is packed with booze-soaked sponge cake. I am become trifle from this cold. This summer cold that my daughter gave me, after bemoaning her fate repeatedly. Now it’s my turn. My trifle-head may be worse than hers unfortunately, what with the drugs and all. All week my right eye has been inexplicably annoyed with my glasses. My left eye has been twitching (with surpressed rage?). Today the world is slightly slanted. If I take off my glasses the slant increases, so I put them back on in a rush.  My face wants to slide down onto the desk and sleep, but I fear the cardigan-sleeve-shaped imprint on my forehead – the badge of sleepy office workers. And who might pass my corner and spot me here snoring gently. So stay open eyes, I plead, as one twitches rebelliously and the other blinks and blinks and blinks as if to flap the glasses right off me. This is the horror of my situation.

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