My laryngitis has degraded from Godfather-ish croak, past Gollum-style rasp, into nothing but a voiceless whisper. Yet, despite a visit to the local medical clinic this morning, there's nothing quick I can do about it.
It's not a bacterial infection, so antibiotics would be no use. The doctor herself said she had similar laryngitis for over a week recently, and her only recommendations were to rest my voice, drink lots of fluids ("whatever you like," were her words, though I suspect vodka wouldn't be a good idea), and wait. So, most likely no podcast recording this week, probably no radio interview with Nora Young for CBC's "Spark," and at the party I'm attending later this week, at best a few perfunctory thanks from me through the PA system.
Definitely no singing, not even Tom Waits songs. Perhaps especially not Tom Waits songs.
Over the years, in the throes of enthusiasm about a particular topic of conversation, I've been prone to letting my speaking voice get louder than might be appropriate, sometimes in public places like restaurants. I'm not a believer in karma, but if you are, feel free to consider it applied, however gently, to me in this case.