One of the few consolations of illness is other people feel obliged to listen to your complaints. Not so for me this past week in London, since everyone else I know has been ill too. So I'll instead let the chess blogosphere know that these last few days, I've been feeling like black's position here:
Not good, in other words.
Still, tomorrow is another day, and a healthy victory follows crushing defeat, sooner or later. How did Pagantintov playing white put Routilin playing black out of his misery, like a dose of industrial strength Paracetamol, in this one from Athens 1937?