Return of the Wheeze and Other Animals

The cold has returned for a second round boxing metaphor with a lovely high pitched chest wheeze trailing in it's wake. After being knocked to the ground and revived by my strepsils-mouth-guard and ibuprofen-style coach spraying refreshing phlegm into my face, my disease-opponent is now on the wane at long last, along with the haemorrhoids and the ageing breast model carrying the round 2 boxing metaphor sign.

I suffered a Slight disappointment, and near-relapse at the weekend when I discovered that my Blondie DVD had been borrowed/stolen/sold into slavery, so I had to comfort myself with Martika and some olbas oil (the essence of Sally Taylor). My nasal passages have never been
clearer, except, possibly, for when I experimented with a scouring powder based hayfever remedy with a painful aftertaste.

More disappointment today! Peacocks (my second favourite shop with the word 'cocks' in its name) has sold out of the mainstay of my wardrobe: the orange snazz-pants of my dreams.
Excuse me while I reach for my comforting essence of Sally Taylor...