Coff Coff

Some time ago I shared on my blog my ritual for killing a cold before it gets a chance to take a hold. But this past week, when the symptoms arose I got lazy and didn't follow my own instructions. I paid for that with a really bad cold, full of cough and awfulness.

I did all the stuff on the list and I'm on the mend. But at its worst I felt so awful that there was no old film, no silly tv show, no talking or sleeping or anything that would distract me from how sore my throat was or how much my head was pounding.

Since childhood there has been only one activity that really soothes me when ill: the Tintin books. I have them all, and they're so well-loved, they're falling apart. I read everyone this past week, sometimes at 3 a.m. when I thought I would go mad with lack of sleep and discomfort. They looked comforting even just stacked on the chair next to my bed.

From the delicious 1930s esthetic to the clever details of every frame, these illustrated books were my first taste of what a graphic novel should be.

Thank you, Hergé.