Sickness and Sunshine

Another week of contrasts.

I'm sure there's few of our regular readers who aren't aware of Hera's recent fight with the tumor fairy. Her plight has been exceptionally well documented by Gayle in a thorough series of updates worthy of Mordin Solus himself.

Far be it from me to upstage a cute puppy with a major illness, but I too have suffered at fate's cruel, snot-encrusted hand, having successfully worked through a vicious rhinovirus in the short space of a few days. To say it went through me faster than a fat kid through an eclair shop would nothing short of gross understatement.

However, this most recent bout of viral brutality has been framed in a setting quite at odds to the usual stomping ground of the common cold. Sunshine. Fecking barrel-loads of it.

Now I realise it's not odd for the weather in this country to get sand in its vagina and change at the drop of a hat. Blizzards in May, April showers in August - the only odd thing about these is that we still find ourselves surprised when we step out the door into sub-arctic temperatures, clad in  flip-flops and vomit-inducing Hawaiian shirts, indignantly bleating "This isn't what Carol Kirkwood said would happen!"

It's safe to say these recent contrasts have left me bereft of thought and inspiration, a situation I intend to remedy as I hurtle through the noon traffic to work later. But contrast highlights change, juxtaposition revealing the intransigent relationships between things.

Soft rubber to hard tarmac, thought to the void of inspiration, sickness to sunshine.