I am exhausted. This morning my eyes creaked open, and then, having seen the world, closed again. I wanted little more than to stay in bed. My husband gently coaxed me out of my cocoon of blankets, and, dazed, I got myself into my business attire.

Going to conventions is a little like going out drinking – it’s fun, friends are there, and you pay for it afterwords. I have a con-hangover. A Conover. This weekend I hugged three friends who, after we hugged, announced that they were carrying some kind of plague. I’m monitoring every sniffle and cough now, wondering if I’m going to get ill. Is this hunger or nausea? I don’t know. I hope that vigorous hand washing, vegetables and sleep will protect me, but really, if I have something, I have it.

I hope I don’t have anything.

Next weekend is Balticon. Fortunately, I’m not a guest this year, so there is very little I have to do to prepare. (I still agreed to put together a presentation and speak about Shelter In Place.) If the Tardis in the picture was real, I would take some time out to go to a spa and relax before next weekend before zipping back, totally refreshed, to go out again.