I've got quite the cold. Usually I just get little ones that are easy to live with in a normal way, but this one has me coughing and choking and croaking. I spend half my time trying to clear my breathing passages and half my time sneezing. Or I spend it passed out.
Mum was shocked when she heard me on the phone. I am Kiwi McCroakison. Sir Roly-Poly (also known as Ginger the Dog) keeps coming to check on me and see that I'm still alive. *Long sneeze.*
Mum is coming over with a few chicken pot pies for us to eat and then I'll be driving her home so I can keep the car and use it to pick up the houseowners from the airport tomorrow. I am so excited for chicken pot pie you have nooooo idea. Well, you do now that I've told you. I don't know why I'm writing directly to my readers like that; it's not generally something I do. I'm blaming my fried ill!brain. Sick ickle Kiwi all curled up on the sofa.
Now I am entering onto a path of television-watching and playing Sims Social on Facebook, a game in which I am saving up for a wonderful Victorian dress for my sim--and then Victorian furnishings, because I'm fangirling the new stuff hard. Damn I wish I had a Victorian dress! Well, not right now. Right now I wish I had a dress made out of clouds--the kind of clouds that kids believe in, all fluffy and touchable, as if a gal could nestle into one and fly. Goodness I don't even know what I'm saying. Still want the Victorian dress to wear around.
I should get off now before I make a bigger fool of myself. Oh, drat, someone turned on the faucet in my nose and now I'm playing my nose trumpet nice and loud. (There has been much debate in my lifetime as to whether it sounds like a ridiculous instrument or an elephant. I think it sounds like an elephant in a band.) Sir Roly-Poly has come to check that I kept my brains up in my head after that blow. So has Sir Princess Daphne--and Sir Prince Dorian! And Sir Waggly-Butt (the lovely Sydney the Dog). I see they are all concerned that the lady who feeds them might expire before the men who usually feed them return.
Let's hope not. Back to earning my Victorian dress as I wait for a chicken pot pie delivery from my mothercreature! ♥ (What did I even say in this entry? I can scarcely remember that I have a brain, let alone what it's thought in the last few moments.)