I see from Facebook that those of us women afflicted turned to the BBC’s 1995 Pride and Prejudice with Colin Firth and Jennifer Ehle.

Tonic.

No coincidence. Those empire-waist dresses (so cheerful) and perpetually bouncing ringlets, lush countryside and obvious magnetism help when you’re languishing against your bed pillows (in not quite so lacy and opulent a fashion as Mrs. Bennett languishing against her pillows, but her pillows are so very lovely to look at—oh dear, that sounds a bit obscene…).

Other useful summer flu remedies: Monkey Trail Mix, icy fruit smoothies with Power Greens packed in them and turned purple by blueberries so that your son won’t know he’s drinking vegetables, hot showers and cold compresses made out of washcloths soaked in cold tap water, Kindle Fire and all it’s many delights for children, pets clustered on the sickbed, a husband who returns home from work early (with gourmet hot dogs or Chinese food) and takes over estate management of your little Ponderosa, sleep.

Today I’ve emerged (wobbly, squinting) into a July ever-intent on scorching this great valley, especially our yard, in particular the recently planted purple hopseed. Mr. Darcy would not approve of the hopseeds’ demise. Elizabeth would probably understand. And do just as I’m doing: Fantasize about ocean and coastal scenes (Cornish coastal scenes, with wind) as I hastily water everything in my nightgown and flip flops and chipped pedicure (Mr. Darcy would not approve).

Talking myself down from the summer flu: Stop worrying about what others have written. Don’t read anything right now. Not even the fortune in that cookie. Throw the cookie in the trash. Don’t force yourself to write in this condition. Just shush up. And when your son (cheerful and chirpy despite his fever—take note!) naps, make haste to your pillows

and dream.

Jane Austen and an unknown male, circa 2006. Tonic.