In Spain, the Three Kings bring the kids their presents on the morning of January 6th. And the stinking cold turned into flu at midday on the 5th. It was so bad that I decided that a) I couldn't drive safely, and therefore b) the Kings weren't getting any more help from me. I collapsed into bed with the usual aching joints and head

I wish I'd thought to take my temperature. As I got into bed that night I had a shaking fit. Not shivering, really shaking, like the time I had hypothermia years ago down a pothole. I spent the next day alternately getting up and making myself useful and having naps. And the next day, I managed to stagger to the shops for a missing present and to deliver it.

But by Friday my sore throat had got so bad that I completely lost my voice. I couldn't even croak. I had to write down notes to the family. At least that got me some sympathy, which was good because I started the day feeling as though an imp was rubbing my throat with a freshly cut chili. By evening it felt like a volcano.

This morning it was back to the imp with the chili, and I felt a little brighter. I updated the blog about La Palma, and then I wrote my son a note to get him to phone up and order a takeaway lunch. To my astonishment, I found myself writing an update to i-make-this-stuff-up. Yippee! It's the 9th, and I finally wrote some fiction.

And now, I'm going to send off a submission if it kills me.