DAY THIRTY-EIGHT

Yay! A taxi driver who knew the route without a GPS, and who took us straight home after the convention banquet - even if he could barely speak English!

That was the good news. The bad news is that the crap feeling I had this morning has developed into something definitely nasty! My throat is sore, my muscles ache, I've developed a chesty cough.

Shit! Just when the finish line was in sight. This is the first cold/flu (whatever it is) infection I've had for nearly two years. I'm usually pretty good at fighting things off. But lack of sleep, the constant travelling, airports, hotels, bookshops, conventions - I guess I'm just run down.

It's our host Charles's birthday party tomorrow, and I think I might have to give it a body swerve - not because I wouldn't want to go, but because I definitely don't want to pass this on. Perhaps a day in bed and lots of fluids will help me fight it off.

But I worry, too, about Minneapolis. We are supposed to be staying with friends, Michele and Bill. But in all conscience, I couldn't inflict my germs upon them, so La Patronne is busy researching hotels in the city, so I can lock myself away and ride this out.

I only have one more formal event - at Once Upon a Crime on Tuesday night - before spending a few days at the home of Le Beau Frere near Rochester, New York, then a final trip to New York City to sign stock in several bookstores and meet with my agent and publisher.

Earlier today we got a taxi into town for my panel, on the subject of "Romancing the Mystery". The panel was moderated by the irrepressible Tom O'Day, who was so tall he couldn't get on to the platform without banging his head on the ceiling. Oddly, I was the only male on the panel. I suggested to fellow panelists, Margaret Lucke, Kris Neri, and Joan Johnston, that maybe it was because I have been known to wear a skirt from time to time!

I was gratified to have a long line to sign books following the panel, after which La Patronne and I paid a visit to Denver's Hard Rock Cafe to quaff a couple of Margaritas and chomp on barbecued ribs.

But gradually, through the afternoon, I began to feel worse and worse. I went to bed, and could barely rouse myself to go to the banquet where we met up with Carl Brookins, a great writer and character from Minnesota. He was kind enough to give me a fabulous review for "Extraordinary People". And in "The Critic", when Enzo is going through the belongings of the murdered wine critic, Gill Petty, he comes across a book the victim had been reading - a mystery written by... Carl Brookins. It was great to see him again, but I didn't want to pass on whatever I had, and in the end, I couldn't even stay for the awards.

The continual time changes aren't helping. We have been backwards and forwards through the hours from California to Arizona to Texas, then back again to Colorado where, tonight, Daylight Savings kicked in and the time sprang forward one hour.

On Monday we go back through the hours to Minneapolis, then back still further to New York at the end of the week. Then, the week after we get back to France, summertime kicks in and the hour springs forward again.

Time! Who knows where it begins, or ends. Or where it goes.