Tastes like chicken.

I woke early on Monday morning, planning to get to my desk and catch up on Friday’s column, which I’d piked on after a week of illness. I coughed twice, leaned against the door frame to recover my balance, took a step towards the kitchen to put the kettle on, and blacked out.

I know why they call it that now.

The world really does go black at the edge of…

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