I seem to have got myself sick. Evidence includes a barking cough, a vexing snuffle and a generalised desire to do nothing but sleep and mope around indoors.
I am not usually such a Victorian Miss about illness, not one to reach for the snuff at every sniffle, but I’m acting like I have bubonic plague rather than a cold. It must be man flu….
A friend yesterday suggested that grief basically involves napping and watching lots of daytime TV (insert angry eyeball roll here), so I’m relieved to have the coughing to set myself apart from mourning with Jeremy Kyle and Oprah!
In the spirit of recuperation, I decided it would be a good day to paint the kitchen bright red. The job was done with more enthusiasm than skill and I now look like a survivor of a vicious zombie mauling and I feel a similar exhaustion. I may look even worse when my mother comes home and find her walls have had a colour revolution!
Perhaps I need to work on being gentle with myself.
I don’t want to do anything but feel I can’t do nothing. At the slightest sign of strength returning and grief lifting, I have the sense that I ought to be conquering the world before lunch and then the galaxy afterwards. There are days when I desperately need to cram life in, to fill up the empty spaces.
I guess it is sometimes easier to do, than just be and feel... now where is that Ibuprofen?