So I had a Merry Sickmas. We think it must have been some version of the flu, though it was curiously absent of any respiratory symptoms.
Trust me — the fever, fatigue and confusion were bad enough. (Alright, yeah, the confusion for me is sort of a constant thing.)
It turns out I’m not the only one who was under the weather. There are apparently a couple of different bugs going around; I know people from New York to Ohio for whom contagion was an unwanted present.
Anyway, pictured below is how I turned the corner on my illness. (It’s been a slow process, but I got sick last Sunday and I feel like I am finally almost better right now.) A fellow writer out in Arizona sent me this delectable fudge as a Festival of Lights gift, and it was one of the first things I was able to eat. (The tiny little spoon it came with was just perfect for beginning with little bites.)
And it was at precisely that point when I stopped getting sicker and started getting better. Fudge is superfood.
The above image is a photograph of a Victorian Christmas Card from the 1890’s and is from Archives New Zealand’s former Post and Telegraph/Telecom Museum Holdings collection.
If you’re a horror fan like I am, then you were delighted with the news that Danny Boyle, Alex Garland and even Cillian Murphy have reunited to present the world with “28 Years Later” (2025). And the trailer to which I’ve linked below is the real one. (I positively loathe the abundance of fake movie trailers to be found online — especially when their incorporation of AI makes them seem authentic.)
The creepy military cadence that you hear in the background, I have come to learn, is Rudyard Kipling’s 1903 poem, “Boots.” I pasted it below for your perusal.
Postscript — am I an OCD psycho if it annoys me that we didn’t get a “28 Months Later” before a “28 Years Later,” just for consistency? There were one or two fan films that appropriated the title. Maybe we could collectively vote to simply decide that at least one is canon?
“Boots,” by Rudyard Kipling
We’re foot—slog—slog—slog—sloggin’ over Africa —
Foot—foot—foot—foot—sloggin’ over Africa —
(Boots—boots—boots—boots—movin’ up an’ down again!)
There’s no discharge in the war!
Seven—six—eleven—five—nine-an’-twenty mile to-day —
Four—eleven—seventeen—thirty-two the day before —
(Boots—boots—boots—boots—movin’ up an’ down again!)
There’s no discharge in the war!
Don’t—don’t—don’t—don’t—look at what’s in front of you.
(Boots—boots—boots—boots—movin’ up an’ down again);
Men—men—men—men—men go mad with watchin’ em,
An’ there’s no discharge in the war!
Try—try—try—try—to think o’ something different —
Oh—my—God—keep—me from goin’ lunatic!
(Boots—boots—boots—boots—movin’ up an’ down again!)
There’s no discharge in the war!
Count—count—count—count—the bullets in the bandoliers.
If—your—eyes—drop—they will get atop o’ you!
(Boots—boots—boots—boots—movin’ up an’ down again) —
There’s no discharge in the war!
We—can—stick—out—’unger, thirst, an’ weariness,
But—not—not—not—not the chronic sight of ’em —
Boot—boots—boots—boots—movin’ up an’ down again,
An’ there’s no discharge in the war!
‘Taint—so—bad—by—day because o’ company,
But night—brings—long—strings—o’ forty thousand million
Boots—boots—boots—boots—movin’ up an’ down again.
There’s no discharge in the war!
I—’ave—marched—six—weeks in ‘Ell an’ certify
It—is—not—fire—devils, dark, or anything,
But boots—boots—boots—boots—movin’ up an’ down again,
An’ there’s no discharge in the war!
