Rise of the Walking Dead

I felt like I could be one of the extras in The Walking Dead-no makeup required. This flu/chest infection/dreaded lurgy that has been going around flattened me for three weeks, and I coughed so much that I started looking to see if lung tissue was coming up. And, because of the immunity (or lack thereof), I was on heavy duty antibiotics, and it took a week to get over those. So I only did what I really had to do, and cancelled or deferred everything else.

Now I have returned to the land of the living-and all the ideas I had of just stopping everything-by everything I mean the antibody replacement, the antibiotics, all the treatments-went out the window. I realize that everything I'm doing keeps me from developing something that will kill me-well, hopefully, anyway. I still have the tremendous desire to reach my hundredth birthday, be fit, healthy and compos mentis, and be riding on my Harley down the Pacific Coast Highway with my 80 year old toyboy sitting behind me (someone has to be able to pick up the bike if it falls over, come on), stop and look at the scenery and then just keel over. What a way to go (either that or be having sex-at 100-now there's a terrific way to come and go at the same time).

One thing that cheered me up during this flu ridden time was last Thursday-Groundhog Day. Every February 2, I look for footage of Punxsutawney Phil, the world's most famous groundhog, leaving his burrow, waving his little paws at the world's press, and looking for his shadow. If he sees it, that means we have six more weeks of winter. It's such an old tradition-it's great fun, I think, watching these old guys in their top hats going to confer with Phil. I cannot for the life of me understand why some people get so bitchy about the fact that Phil isn't always right. Who cares? It's fun, and a reason to party and celebrate-God knows that our world needs any excuse to celebrate right now. I think the naysayers are the ones who had no friends in school, and probably still don't. There are many copies of Phil now-but he's the first, and the real deal.

Apparently Phil came out of his burrow right on schedule, waved his little paws at the cameras, did a few jumps (only a few-he's really old, after all), and when one of the old guys told him that there is a big fat rodent with bad hair and a worse attitude in the White House, he declared that we will have four more years of winter (probably nuclear winter), and that he was going on strike for four years and would come back before the next election. Of course, that is only if there is a Pennsylvania, or a United States, Europe, or the rest of the world.

Millions of Americans wish that we could do the same.

People here have asked me why we seem to worship Punxsutawney Phil, since he is only a rodent. I reply that the Brits worship their own rodents (they live in the palace, Downing Street, Whitehall, etc), and, in fact, this country is completely overrun by rodents. Some of them even have four legs.

I'm back to normal, as you can tell, irascible as ever. And we have snow. I like that too, having grown up with snow angels, snowball fights, snow days off school (especially snow days, every child's dream). But here, one hundredth of a millimetre of snow means that everything in London (and the rest of the country) stops. Trains don't run on time (and sometimes not at all) because there is white stuff on the tracks, buses don't work, flights are cancelled...it's funny, really-but only if I have no place to go.

One day (maybe) these guys will sort themselves out. Things will work (maybe), the NHS will be saved (not likely, in my lifetime-or anyone else's), people will stop bitching and whingeing about Brexit (which could be the best thing that this country has done in decades. Or not. Only time will tell), and, by that time, I will be riding down the Pacific Coast Highway on my Harley.

I'm off to Starbucks. Some things work regardless of the weather!