I can barely speak, dear Reader, let alone type.
My throat is parched. My eyes water. I am sorry to say that my nose is no longer a thing of beauty.
I have a cold, dear Reader. A Taizhou Cold.
My chaise longue offers me no comforts. I have retreated to my hammock in the Humanities Lighthouse Eyrie, thinking of home and listening to an old favourite. Shiny has joined me.
But what of your classes, dear Ada?, you wail. Surely the University will cease to operate without you, students will rampage through the Information Nexus, and Lu-Seal will forget to switch on the giant mechanical feeder in the Piggery, with disastrous consequences for world peace?
Cease your wailing, dear Reader.
My staff is delivering my final-year undergraduate lecture on the Epic Rune even as we speak.
All dear, dear Salty (Dr Bob to you) has to do is to read my lecture notes aloud, clearly and without hesitation.
Everything is under control.