I sit here with a tissue shoved up each nostril melting slowly into a puddle of Lemsip, Earl Grey and digestive biscuits. I haven’t eaten anything but porridge or biscuits for 3 days. That’s not that long, I know, but it’s long enough for me to be questioning my existence and many, many other things. I have become one with my bed.
The most exhilarating thing to happen lately was losing my glasses. It was 20 minutes of sheer catastrophe and I’ve never felt adrenaline like it. This is it, isn’t it? This is how it ends, I thought, tiptoeing around my room as if avoiding shards of glass for fear of crushing the only lifeline I have between mistaking my cat for jumpers and being able to read roadsigns. I really believed they’d gone – upped themselves in the middle of the night and walked off, leaving me to fend for myself. I can’t see at all without twentieth century optical intervention. If this was the prehistoric era, I wouldn’t have made it out of adolescence. I’d have sat on a bear.
Anyway, they had slipped down the side of my bed. Where I feel my life is heading now, actually. Can I pull that back up too? Will I ever breathe through both nostrils again?
Maybe we can only pick ourselves up. Maybe this is the porridge talking. Maybe.
Photo from Thailand – a reminder of a less germ-infested time.