Christmas has been and gone, and left me with a redux of the cold I started the season with just over a week ago. That cold in turn was some weeks old, lying dormant in my lungs as I ceased cycling for those two icy, frosty weeks and only rearing its head when a few days on the bicycle shook up my lights just before the holidays began.
I still maintain that this season is a good time to be vaguely unwell, although my saintly, accepting countenance is starting to fix into a rictus smile. Still, the chill of the house—how its temperature dropped to far below the ten degrees that we set the heating to when we left, I don’t know—combined with my condition mean that we now have a weird, unsettling burrow in the downstairs room, as the futon bed made up for me to sleep and bark in last night remains half-made and—now that we’ve drawn the curtains for the evening—guiltily occupied. The hamster instinct is strong at this time of the year.
Lord knows what next. Meals will be served here; books read and probably DVDs watched, with popcorn settling into the folds of the duvets and possibly putting down roots. It will all have to come to an end for the return to work next week, of course, unless I can somehow wheel the entire futon into the office. I should be grateful for the rest of the world, for stopping me from rapidly turning into the sort of old incontinent that hoards newspaper both in stacks and as rudimentary underwear. The rest of the world, and the fact that K. couldn’t find a catheter in the sales.