The Fever Lifts

What Ho Proles!

And ‘What Ho!’ indeed.

At half-part two this morning, my man came to check on me. The fever was at its height and the Honourable Jacob was suffering more than an English cricket team stuck in the middle of the Indian subcontinent without a decent spin attack. If nothing else, it proved, once and for all, that, as Lear would have it, ‘I am not ague-proof’.

Nevertheless, through my delirium, I recollect My Man informing me that there had been some more comments to this blog, including saintly Eliza’s recipe for a promising flu tonic. With no more ado, I set My Man to gathering the ingredients. Naturally, we had hot whiskey by the tubful and sugar by the bag, but neither a clove nor lemon in the house. Nevertheless, I dispatched My Man to the village where, at three o’clock, he woke the local greengrocer who, under the threat of eviction, quickly provided the missing items. Within the hour I was quaffing the magic elixir and I immediately fell into a deep sleep.

And what can I say? This morning, I bounced from my bed, full of the joys of spring, or should I say, mid-Autumn. I’m still not firing on all cylinders, you understand, but well on my way to making a recovery. I’ve already read the Sunday papers (including Mr. Appleyard’s excellent piece on book publishing in The Sunday Times), signed a notice giving the greengrocer permission to extend his shop (it was the least I could do), and then informed my rent collectors that they should immediately begin to take an extra five pounds from him each week. My man also tells me that he saw Professor Kipling in the village, which immediately brought back the cold shivers, but I refuse to allow that woman to spoil an otherwise good morning.

Toodle pip!