Throbbing
I am sat in front of my computer wearing a dressing gown on a Saturday night at ten o’clock. Any fading memory of my loud and raucous youth has disappeared completely this evening, as I have forsaken the lure of a party to sit and write a draft of the Prestwich Plan. However, my choice to swap socialising for solitary typing was made easier by an attack of Man Flu which has crippled me this evening, and turned me from erudite man about town, to groaning misery. It began during the FA Cup Final, a match normally so boring that ...