The most awful bother

My perpetual throat infection has settled, this week, in my lungs. Something catches awkwardly when I breathe and I can't seem to get enough fresh air at night, even with both windows open. I have bronchitis, and I'm afraid I've given it to my long-suffering boyfriend - the doctor, when I asked her if it was contagious, said "Well I wouldn't kiss anyone..." - but Marc doesn't think he's caught it. I guess his body doesn't snap up any chance of a good, long, antibiotically treated illness like mine does. Self. Pity.

At least I've had a lot of time to read, and nap, and finish off Brideshead Revisited. I'm taking the sea plane out to the island on Friday to convalesce over the weekend. I've always been obsessed with the concept of convalescence, probably because the English children I read about as a child were always having the most wonderful adventures while recovering from fevers in Cornish cottages by the sea. Of course, they could breathe, ha-ha-ha.

Taking the plane is something I haven't done since I brought Happy back from the States. I've been instructed to buy her a harness and an individual ticket for the trip. She'll sit beside me. The plane's a six-seater, a "Beaver", and it only takes fifteen minutes to get to Saturna. The ferry takes half a day, at least. And going by air, you see all the Gulf Islands from above in a way that's slightly more awe-inspiring than it is sickening. Slightly. The wind always kicks up over land. But it's not the trip I'm worried about, it's getting the dog into the plane. She's not easy to lift, (especially when your lungs are all black and shriveled, or whatever bronchial lungs look like), and she sometimes decides that certain men shouldn't be allowed near her, so that could rule out help from the burly dock workers that help carry the baggage down. Maybe I should buy her one of those leashes that loop over the muzzle, so she'll look less dangerous, but that would make her look more dangerous, wouldn't it? I don't know... The staff have to be used to hauling dogs in and out of the bobbing, spindly plane, don't they? I can't imagine most animals climbing gracefully up the ladder-like steps. I can't even imagine most people doing it.

Hack. Cough. I'll need to return the Brideshead dvd to Videomatica tomorrow. And Marc's coming over. Marc! He's nice. He isn't sick yet, either. We need to get him sick. We need to spread our cause. Our black, shriveled cause. O yes.