Plus that little girl, in the best tradition of little ones everywhere, had a cold to pass along to Nana and Granddad. He's recovering faster than I am, so is off at yoga this morning. I'm in bed, box of mouchoirs handy, reading my first Commissaire Maigret novel, en français, a very enjoyable way to work on my French vocabulary. . . Colds have never been quite the same for me since Neo-Citran tinkered with their formula a few years back, but if I have to be sick, this is probably the best possible way to go. By an amusing synchronicity, in the Simenon novel I plucked randomly off the fabulous bookshelves here, Maigret is also blowing regularly into a mouchoir, although that lucky man is also being served rum grog by a loving spouse (hmm, I need to have a chat with Pater).
Unlike poor Maigret, however, who has to keep slogging away in his search for a killer, after lunch I'm hoping to log some healing zzzzz's (Sleep is Nature's Nurse, a friend used to say, and of course, The Bard: Sleep Knits Up the Raveled Sleeve of Care) before setting up another post for tomorrow, a Wordless Wednesday focus on Naples, so much colour. . . For Friday's Five Things, should I manage to write that soon as well, I'm thinking I might tell you Five Things I'm Looking Forward to Getting Back to. . . or perhaps Five Things I'll Be Sad to Leave. . . perhaps even both. . .
But for now, there's a mystery to be solved, somewhere in Paris, sometime late-60s, a certain Marchand de Vin has been shot and killed....