I just avoided recording this with an illness. I am not sure what it is I am fighting. It feels like the sickly bantling child of an ill-moral'd cold: the Mordred of influenzas. It does not seem to be amounting to much at present, but it has sufficed to make me sluggish and surly and has effectively slowed Ethandune's progress for today.
I fear I will live, but not for long, to regret that allusion to medieval literature.