Olfactory & Faust

I've not been blogging as prolifically as I would like to be. The main reason for my slackness of late is that I have been sick. The last post mentioned the assault on my olfactory senses with the passing of a rodent in my house somewhere. Well, if the wretched thing was baited this past week, then the putrefaction would be of no concern because I have been unable to smell properly for about a week now, owing to a head cold/flu of such magnitudinous strength that my nose has felt like there has been a medicine ball wedged in it. Along with the nasal discomfort, my head's ached, I've been breathless with exhaustion, and my ears are blocked.  On a side note, it's nice to type the word 'olfactory'. It doesn't get used often enough. Louden Wainwright III put it to good use in his ditty Dead Skunk in the Middle of the Road ('You don't have to look/And you don't have to see/You can sense it in your/Ol-fact-or-reeee').

I had to take sick leave, and curl up on the lounge and binge-watch The Crown. Chez Bingells is moving with the times, and we now have Netflix. This capitulation to modern viewing habits is not something we had planned, but now my seventeen-year-old has a part-time job, he thought he could spend some of his pay on Netflix. Ergo, I have been bingeing on and drooling over The Crown.  I'm adoring it. I've always been fond of biopics, and am adoring the sumptuous costumes and recreation of the 1950s England, as well as the stellar performances. John Lithgow is mesmerising as Winston Churchill. I have always been a fan of Lithgow's, ever since his astonishing turn as the transsexual former footballer Roberta Muldoon in The World According to Garp.

But with the sickness, comes mild depression. I really hate being sick. I hate having no appetite (but enjoy the possibility of regaining the figure I had when I was in my twenties). I hate being miserable. I hate having blocked ears. Yesterday in the supermarket, I was so fed up with it, I decided to try an old remedy: I closed my eyes, held my nose, and swallowed. It worked; there was a temporary clearance of the ears. What was initial relief turned to abject horror when I realised the Faustian pay-off in having my full hearing return: the supermarket loudspeakers were playing Last Christmas by Wham, which has my vote of Worst Christmas Song In History Of Yuletide Celebrations.

Well, I must attend to other things now. Got some plans which I cannot yet discuss, but if they come to fruition, they will be blogged about, believe me. Just watch this space.