A whole week down with a cold – apparently the Queen’s got it too but that’s little consolation. One thing you can be sure of is that she didn’t get it from me. I caught it from one of our constant builders, who was coughing and spluttering away last week, considerate chap. It must be something about the breed that they proceed from job to job bringing affliction in their wake because the last lot that were here came laden with germs as well and I succumbed. The M.S. means that even the slightest infection knocks me for six, so this has been a wasted week. No work at all.
I have spent most of the week wrapped up in a blanket surrounded by tissues and Lemsip packets. Whilst my nose has been running it has at least given me some reading time. A pity then that my unread paperback pile was getting low. I whizzed through David Nicholls’ slight but entertaining ‘One Day’ on Monday and Tuesday, finishing just in time for my appointment with my therapist, Liz. She arrived together with her little dog, Meldrum for a session of Indian Head Massage to a condition of barely suppressed mayhem.
The regular builders were down at their end of the house cutting through a concrete floor with an angle grinder, whilst their labourer was outside taking up the crazy paving with a pick in search of the main drains. At the other end, the previous builders had returned to repair a faulty wash-hand basin in the en-suite. This entailed, in equal measure, knocking tiles off the wall, drilling, hacksawing, wandering about looking for the stop tap, hammering, banging and Radio Tay. The dogs were chasing each other in and out of the back door where the farmer was busy in the field behind the garden with a tractor. Just as I accepted all this and contrived to enjoy my therapy, a low flying Eurofighter from Leuchars skimmed the chimney. What have I done to deserve this?
Things eventually calmed down about 2.00 and I was able to go to sleep for an hour, stupefied by Benylin. My inability to get in and out of bed unaided means that all naps have to take place in my armchair, not the height of comfort but way better than nothing.
By Wednesday I was in extremis, scouring the house for an unread book, being finally reduced to starting the China Mieville which I’d bought for Bruce for his birthday.
I really wish I hadn’t. I’ve struggled up to page 150 of The Kraken and I just don’t get it. I’ve always had an aversion to science fiction and this one has all that I hate about the genre in spades. I’ve read good reviews of this guy’s work in reputable publications; well, The Guardian – but they lie! What a waste of time.
Never mind, lack of suitable reading matter at least means that I’ve started my application for a grant from DVAA. It’s to pursue my new-found interest in animation. How wise is that?