have kindly sponsored

Flu, glorious flu! Make me stay home and do nothing! Flu, glorious flu! Save me from teaching Oliver Twist.

That little terror Oliver is driving me insane. However, as you may have surmised by my introduction, I have been given the gift of flu. Holed up in my flat, the only thing Oliver and his mates could steal off me would be a hacking cough and a lovely coat of phlegm.

I made the fatal mistake of watching the Six Nations this weekend in a pub. Even though I was not drinking, by night my cold had progressed from mild cough to near self-strangulation.

I went into to school today, taught my first class and came home. But even at home I can not escape that little twerp. My first turn at television has brought up an hour about Dickens. Despite my greatest efforts, the flu has weakened my reserve and find myself sucked into this program as if in a trance. Even now, while I write this, academics babble on excitedly behind me and I can not help but turn and watch, fascinated and numbed to Dicksenian sugarcoating by all the cough medicines I have ingested.

Once more, my father has come through to save this column from repeated antics about my time in London. He called me last night, as I thought he might, and his tales of wedding plans have once again focused me on the event. He and my stepmom revisited a reception hall in Detroit, a bed and breakfast actually. They were there to taste the food and give it a final glance. The place is beautiful, but as most places I like, very old. By old of course I am referring to old by American standards which is about 100 years.

His words to me were: Well Stacie, it is very old, and not that classy, but with the right flowers and decorations I think we could make it into a great party.

High praise from the top.

The result is a promise from them to put down a deposit this week. Could it be? Will they actually do it? You might say to me you have heard it all before. You never know, this could be the one. Stay tuned.

7 February 2000,

Stacie Lewis