I don’t need the semi-circle of mess that surrounds me on the sofa to remind me how my world’s grown small. A few dry crumbs, a dirty cup, a newspaper left over from Sunday (in several pieces and none of them worth bothering with) a gardening magazine, still in its wrapper, sent to mock me no doubt because I haven’t even the energy to walk to the bottom of the garden, let alone dig it, a Joanna Trollop novel – the one about ‘Other People’s Children’ – a bit of a depressing read but the only book I have around, apart from a couple of large print Mills and Boon found in a charity shop, that I swear are for research purposes only.
And why am I’m sitting in the middle of all this detritus, because it’s my 8th, or is it 9th, day of having flu. Yes flu, during the best spring weather we’ve had for years. The garden is glorious, all frothy pear blossom and vivid polyanthus, but I really can’t bear to look. Too bright. And now I'm actually out of bed, I’m left with an intense need for something, anything, to distract me from these four walls. Today is the first time for a week that I’ve been able to bear to look at a computer screen without feeling a need for sunglasses. So what’ll I do – write of course – escape. Living within your head is as good as going on holiday, if only I could stop coughing.
