Last night I had nightmares about Conference and driving - two things I can't do much of while I'm still ill. But Boots are ordering me some medicine that'll make me feel better (but not make me better, as it's a virus). The doctor who's not my usual doctor was quite good at liaising directly with Boots to find something I could take that didn't have lactose in, and would therefore make me more ill.

Today I seem to have decided to have some existential angst about my age, even though my birthday's not for another two months. I think it's Miles Vorkorsigan's fault, as I'm re-reading those books and he's thirty where I'm up to at the moment.