Pseud-Flu Fecundity

It is very rare that I cna state that I finished two books in the same day. Yesterday met those criteria. I had been sick and walking/working for a few days and I decided to avert death I should rest. I slept for fourteen hours. i awoke and after a single double espresso (boggling, isn't ?) I read for seven hours, completed the decidedly middleborw Perfume by Peter Suskind (recommended by an Austrian chap named Jakob) in anticipation of seeing the film at a Belgrade film festival next month. I then resmued my efforts with the Wedgwood while listening to Beethoven quartets and some Tomasz Stanko. Just before suppertime, and my wife's arrival home, I began Lambs of London by Peter Ackroyd. It is a historical novel about Charles Lamb and his acquaintence with both the literary hoaxster William Ireland but a novice Thomas De Quincey (freshly arrived from Manchester, land of Anthony Burgess and a pair of quarrleing sibling rock stars). On could see the wires moving but alas it was a charming diversion and i finished it before ten. So much so, that I picked up a few more of his books from the library. I am still medicated but on the mend, I suppose.