Fighting off the last surviving bugs of a head cold. Terrible carnage yesterday: mucus and mayhem accompanied by the hacking sounds of a lung-infested virus making its way up into the sinus, preparing for a last stand, backs to the membrane wall of my dribbly nostrils. Bog roll everywhere. The acrid odour of cordite amid the fumes of honey and lemon stinging the eyes. Nothing to smoke for three days. It's hell out there, i tell you. Hell. With bells on...or that could be the ringing in my ears? A terrible tune; discordent and distant, like a ships bell on a foggy morn. A mournful toll to pay the piper. At the Gates of Dawn. Tell Syd...