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Fog

I can just see to the end of the road: ghostly trees outlined against thick white, still carrying ragged golden-brown leaves, but with the colour leeched out of them by the fog.  Nothing exists beyond the village. Devon is invisible.

The hounds and cats are still fast asleep, apart from Henning, who always wants breakfast.

This morning I woke up and thought : something is different.  Something is better.   I lay in bed for a bit trying to work out what it could be, and finally realised that for the first time in two weeks, I was the right temperature and not soaking in a bath of my own sweat.   I think my heroic piratical cold, legacy of unwisely thinking 'A pirate metal gig? Why not give it a go?'  has finally moved on!  It's such a relief.

ETA while coughing miserably: no apparently it is STILL HERE.  I really am not heroic enough for heroic pirate metal viruses. 

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