Bronchial matter(s)

For the both of you concerned about my health, I can now report that after 7 weeks of infectious disease my expectorations are no longer the colour of Oscar the Grouch and can be considered a healthy, glowing, translucent buttermilk. No, don't thank me for sharing it. It's my pleasure.

Five years and 15 minutes ago, I was lying on a table with my guts spilling out. They'd already stuck a needle the length of the Dublin Spire in my spine, and an oxygen handler was shouting at me, "Would ye ever quit yer whinging? You can breathe perfectly fine." And someone was doing the washing up with my insides down below.

Was it worth it? I was promised a girl. Her name was supposed to be Isolde Florence Cassandra, and she was going to wear stripy tights and fairy wings. Instead, I was handed Elliot (see above), who ended up with the stripy tights and fairy wings anyway. He screamed bloody murder for his first 5 months, and it all nearly ended in actual bloody murder the first time I thought about strangling him. And then, overnight, he turned into the most loving, most engaging, most wonderful creature who ever lived. So yeah, I guess it was worth it.

This is my first blog entry. I don't promise to keep it updated. But it's here nonetheless.