I think I have been sleeping for the passed three days; I know that when I went to Dublin last Monday, I wasn’t feeling too hot and by Wednesday, I was migrating from bed to sofa. A simple bug, nothing serious, but all the fatigue I had accumulated in December finally got the better of me. In my diurnal oneiric deliriums, I had some pretty crazy adventures; I roamed far and wide, met interesting people and discovered wonderful lands only known to me. I travelled back in time revisiting simple moments of peace and happiness, the beach of Erdeven and the glistening of its ocean when the winds come from the East, an apple cake cooling on the kitchen windowsill of the old school we lived in, my little sister falling in a ditch while playing hide and seek in the forest of Broceliande… I woke up feeling temporarily restored, recharged like an I-phone after hours on life support, refreshed but hungry. While I was dwelling about the reality of the irrational, another memory came back to me. When I was a kid, and only if I was sick, the recovery dish was always rice, with butter and lemon juice. Sometimes with a bit of fish or ham, but often just like that; it made me smile and I started thinking.