Disease

The briefest of brief entries, because I have become diseased.

Instead of being at work I am at home in bed.

I do not think I have ever done this before, and I am feeling terribly guilty.

I actually got up once, to get dressed and ease my guilty conscience, but the clothes were too difficult and I shivered so much they wouldn’t go on, and in the end I gave up and crawled back under the duvet, which is where I am now.

Mark went out to work. I was in between drugs at the time, and burst into tears because I was frightened of being by myself. I cannot explain this at all.  Mark helped me remove my boots and insisted that I got in bed. I have been here ever since. It is not my finest hour. I have been here for most of the day, apart from getting up when I mistakenly thought that I would go to work.

Hence I have got very little to offer in the way of wit or original thought this evening. The world aches and is blurry.

The picture is some flowers that arrived unexpectedly this afternoon. They had a mysterious card explaining that they were from my favourite child. It took me a while of ringing round my favourite children to work out which was responsible. It turned  it to be Number Two Daughter, who is currently prosperous and organised. I was very impressed, they are lovely.

I can’t write any more. If I die, can you please all club together to help Mark with the rest of the school fees?

I don’t want to die. I would never find out what happens in the end of A Game Of Thrones.

I am going to take some more drugs.