2015 — 23 April: Thursday
A marathon six-hour Long Dark Teatime of the Soul spent clutching a bowl as I waited for whatever it was I've eaten — that was clearly disagreeing with me — to, erm, vacate the premises. UnExcellent. Tiring, too. Or, at least, wearisome.
I'm cautiously...
... sipping my first cuppa in over 12 hours.
No food yet, I predict. Nor am I quite ready to tackle the two acquisitions from Asda yesterday afternoon:
They'll keep. [Pause] As will this just-delivered item:
Written in 1987, set in 2041, but overlooked (by me, if by nobody else) until just a few days days ago, while I was leafing through an old (#42, Spring 1988) copy of "Foundation" magazine looking (as ever) for something completely different but reading the editorial by Edward James. (He was that year's administrator of the Arthur C Clarke award.)
My equally-cautiously sipped second cuppa has also stayed down, though there were moments when I was doubtful. This is very tedious. I also had to sit quietly for 30 minutes while the visual zig-zags came and went. I shan't be bothering with lunch today!
How silly of me
A lady from the "Pru" just called to tell me that I'd overpaid (by 50p) when paying back dear Mama's final annuity payment and that therefore I'd receive a cheque. I apologised and suggested they forget about it... She sounded pleased.
And still they keep coming:
I've read all these in eBook form, but decided I'd like paper, too. [Pause] Now, if only I felt improved, wouldn't that be grand? I'm about to try my first food today. It's shortly after 20:00 and I think I'm feeling a bit peckish. Fingers crossed.
One Ibuprofen and one good film later and I am feeling somewhat less like death warmed up. This is good. Sleep will, with luck, complete the healing process.