I have a cold. Not a terrible illness, there's not a lot of dramatic potential to it. I've gotten to that curious stage where everything seems slightly unreal, a bit like some psych meds make you feel, or like psychosis just before you think your loved ones are being inhabited by replicants intent on making you commit suicide. My bedroom smells of old menthol and there is dust from hundreds of tissues swirling about in the air. I would open the window, but I live on a main road so it is not likely to be refreshing.
I can't sleep but I can't get out of bed, so I've read two good-sized hardback books since yesterday, worked a bit on an article and on the books I'm writing, although my heart wasn't really in it. I spent time writing and rewriting the same sentences until I gave up.
My skin looks like uncooked pastry dotted with several zits that have reared their ugly heads. My eyes are all swimmy, like I have cut a few onions, and my head feels as if it has been stuffed with the multicoloured foam that you get in old teddy bears.
Still, musn't grumble, eh?!
Clare xxx
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1 comment:
Colds are unrated as an illness they makes you feel awful! I'm seriously impressed with how much you managed to get done despite feeling so lousy. It's taken me 11 months so far to read Lord of the rings and I've still 200 pages to go! Get well soon Clare.
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