I was off sick yesterday. It’s weird when you work fully from home; the boundary lines get blurry - so it’s much harder to be ‘ill enough’ not to do any work.
Am I really too poorly to open a laptop? Am I so feeble that I can’t check Slack on my phone?
Well actually… yes and yes; I was. Would it have been enough to stop others? Probably. But they’re not me.
I was curled up watching Murder on the Orient Express and solving puzzles, and trying hard not to think about it.
I slept a bit too. I have a strange relationship with sleep at the moment - it doesn’t quite hit the mark. Yesterday, as Hercule Poirot was twiddling his magnificent moustaches, I drifted into sleep, but it was the shallow film of lucid water on top of the ocean, not the deep dark stuff where all the nutrients are. Hercule agreed, distantly, I’m sure.
I’m much better today. Sammy does not think it was the flu. But she’s not me either. I still have a tickly throat and the feeling of having all the energy drained from my lungs, but I was able to get on with whatever it is I do behind a laptop.
At the end, Poirot got them all gathered on the tracks for the denouement. That moustache really is magnificent; I think it grew more elaborate throughout the movie. He twirled and twiddled as he explained precisely how the murder had taken place. No evidence. No smoking gun, just an intricate structure of calculated suspicion that turned out to be (sigh, Agatha) completely correct. I must have missed a bit, I thought.
Probably asleep.
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