Dear Constant Reader,
Even glamourous showgirls get sick. Usually that means I lie wanly in my bed, propped up on pillows, coughing delicately into an embroidered handkerchief, wearing leopard-print pajamas, and genteelly sipping tea. Visitors are welcome, from a distance, and I entertain myself with cross-stitch or reading Stephen King.
This was not the case this week. I was felled by a vicious flu bug that had me unable to rise from bed for practically 48 hours. There was nothing glamourous about my…
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