I am not going to write very much at all.
This is because I am feeling far too sorry for myself.
I think I am not very well.
Obviously you will instantly think that this is the perilous bat flu. I know you will think this because it was the first thing that I thought as well. Indeed, I rather hoped that it was, because then I could sign up for a six-month natural immunity certificate, and thus free myself from some of the more irritating red-tape with which our current government seems to be determined to festoon our lives.
Regrettably, however, it probably isn’t, at least not unless it is some new and hitherto undiscovered variant, let us call it the Lake District Strain.
Bat flu manifests itself in a cough, a high temperature, a runny nose, and general other cold-like symptoms.
This Lake District Strain fortunately does not include any cold-like symptoms at all. It does, however, incorporate dreadful nausea and occasional debilitating bursts of dizziness.
I have not lost my sense of smell, although I wished that I had when I took the dogs out this morning, and Roger Poopy’s leavings were reminiscent of the Chinese takeaway plate scrapings from last night.
Neither have I lost my sense of taste, which conversely, seems to have become oddly intense. Sharp tastes and smells have become so vivid as to be almost intolerable, as if I were ten years old again, and I have had to reluctantly abandon tonight’s slab of brandy cake, vaguely marvelling that I have ever found such a gustatory sensation pleasurable.
I do seem to have something of a higher temperature than usual. This seems to be coming and going, possibly depending on what drugs I have consumed. I woke up in the middle of the night feeling dreadfully hot and shivery, and Mark propelled me underneath a cool shower. This seemed shockingly unfeeling at the time, but of course did the trick immediately, and ten minutes later I was joyfully temperate and sleeping tranquilly again.
I am at work now, but it is obvious even to me that I should not be.
The dizziness does not happen when I am driving, only when I stand up or wag about a bit.
The thing that makes it plain that I should not be at work is the desperate longing to sleep.
I have got this despite having spent the entire day asleep in bed, and still the urge is not sated. My eyes are closing even as I write, and…
…and in fact I gave in, and sloped off home, where I slept for a further two hours, and am now feeling considerably brighter. In fact, the exhaustion has given way to an oddly euphoric sensation, rather like the one reported by the sufferers of advanced cases of tuberculosis.
I don’t think I have got that either.
All the same, I am considerably recovered, in a light-headed sort of way. I do not know what sort of illness the Lake District Strain actually is, but expect that probably another good night’s sleep will see the end of it. Probably it is related to having had too many exciting adventures this week.
It is going dark now. I know this is short, but I am going to stop trying to write things, and gaze tranquilly out of the window instead.
Have a picture of Mark’s garden.
