Bernhardt, Nazimova, Garbo, and Me...

Yes, kids, I'm a Mucha kind of mood these days, and sadly it's not because of his sinuously fabulous Art Nouveau lines, nor even because of his brilliant evocation of the glamour of the Divine Sarah.

No, it's more of a pulmonary kind of affinity, if not with the poster-maker, than with his subject. I'm coughing, you see, on an epic, houseshaking, rib-aching, deeply unpleasant scale.  Fortunately - for the moment, at any rate - the bustlingly efficient folks down at the clinic have ruled out consumption, but as a runner-up, acute bronchitis is no prize.  They equally unflappably assure me that the dizzying range of meds they've given me will do the trick in a day or so, but I remain unconvinced.

If only the tailor made housecalls, I'd have him over to run up a little white number along the lines of the above.  So practical for the invalid, no?

All of this is especially annoying, on top of everything else, as our annual summer pilgrimage is rapidly approaching and there are any number of tiresome things that need to be done before we board that blessed airplane out of the summertime Sandlands.  For the moment, though, all that has to be postponed (although very definitely the flight will not be, not if I'm to save my sanity, not to mention Mr. Muscato's) in lieu of sitting about the house draped in terriers, who have rapidly learned not to be too alarmed by the hacking explosions that punctuate my rewatching of Margaret Rutherford movies on YouTube.

I suppose I should sit down and ask myself WWSD (What Would Sarah Do?), although I suspect that as the answer would likely have involved lynxes and absinthe, it may not be too practical a guide in these drab days...