Still sick. I woke up to pee in the middle of the night and then my thermostat went haywire and, in spite of being a particularly balmy night, I had chattering teeth and a shivering body under two duvets, two blankets, and a hot water bottle. Fever sucks.
I realised today that I haven't had a drink this December. That is both un-festive and depressing. Add to that the fact that we still don't have our tree, and I might be very upset... but I'm so relieved not to feel the way I did last night, and that Vincent hasn't said anything about me not being up to Freddy Kempf tonight (even though I'm not completely sure I am; but he won't see this until Monday!), that I'm not very upset, and am comforting myself with the knowledge we will get our tree tomorrow, and as soon as I feel better I will drink like Shane MacGowan. (Probably not quite.)
Anyway, I have to get up and shower soon, because as we learnt from the Billy Bragg gig, when the Town Hall says 8pm, they mean 8PM SHARP, BITCHES! and I fear it's going to take some time to transform this under-bridge-dwelling creature into something that looks like it should be in the same room as the NZSO. So I'm just going to leave you this short documentary we watched last night. It's not amazing, but it's very watchable, and it gets more and more exciting as it all comes together.