There is one consolation in being sick; and that is the possibility that you may recover to a better state than you were ever in before…
Henry David Thoreau
I think I can safely say the fog of beastliness has finally been lifted and the mending is well and truly on its way. That said, there is still a residual strangeness afoot— no doubt owing to a few nights spent bolt-upright for fear of drowning from the nose down. The head is clearer, so much so I can picture phrases in their entirety and have them committed without the worry they’ll escape as they did yesterday; which wasn’t so much a case of forgetting what I was trying to copy, as it was a series of chases I wasn’t properly conditioned for. That’s the worst thing about feeling under the weather: as climates go, they aren’t particularly chivalrous.
I remember one particular malady which left me so indisposed, I not only considered it malfeasant, so unnecessary were the symptoms; but also the closest I’ve ever been to becoming a vegetable. I was so delirious at one point, I actually considered making clippings of myself to send to friends so they could grow their own me.
Since then I’ve used the man/pot-plant spectrum as a rough rule of slide to gauge the gruesomeness of whatever it is that ails me: one being quite normal and ten: Salix babylonica or Weeping willow— a pleasant enough looking thing, but with all the characteristics of a state you should never be: ornamentally droopy and narrow, deciduous and named after a place which arouses images of exile and immorality.
While I hadn’t quite reached the shady heights of a ten, I was nevertheless pendulous enough to remain tucked up, clinging onto my duvet— along with the sixes and sevens in-case they ran off in search of the words that’d absconded earlier in the day. It’s just one of those ghastly things we pick up over time, along with the odd bug or two, that once things start getting away from us, there’s really no stopping them.
Fortunately the emancipation ceased and I didn’t get too much worse as the day dragged on— the drugs plugged the symptoms to the point I could at least breathe without making gargling sounds, which in turn allowed me to sleep a little. Unfortunately, I haven’t the stamina to delve into anything remotely grumpy today, at least not with the gusto it truly deserves. The beastliness may have evaporated, but there is still the small matter of about 50IQ points to make back up. So with any luck, after a few cups of tea and one good rest I’ll be ready for whatever the weathermen may throw at me; and with any hope be smarter than the cat again.
Without civilisation, we would not turn into animals, but vegetables…
Which wouldn’t be me. As for Asbo—
Just the wrong kind of walls…
Were it not for the house-sitting I’ve been doing for my sister, I would no doubt have finished the few things I’ve been working on; I’d been looking forward to it too— but after spending most of today getting over yesterday; which was spent in much the same way as today; and then moving back: I’m in a full-blown phase-state. I’m sure you’ll all know a variance of it well: a lack of decent sleep leaving you feeling half-awake, physically drained and not too clever; have work in your head but getting to it requires the services of the part of your brain’s that’s already in bed.
This is what shifting houses can do to me, it can throw me out of whack, out of sleep and leave me rather worse for wear; and this is before factoring in Asbo the anti-social beast my sister calls a pet. I should ideally have come home during the day, sat at my table with my view, next to the kitchen and been irritated by my own cat: she’s allowed to do that, she’s a monster I can take all the credit for, but Asbo— though he’s a magnificent looking creature, he has an inherency to maim and strike fear into you. Physically, it’d be all too easy to describe him as low-maintenance because he’s either indoors sleeping or outside prowling— but that doesn’t take into account the time spent dressing the assorted wounds he inflicts as a matter of course. In deed, thirty seconds after arriving on Tuesday, I was bleeding from where my right calf used to be.
My sister thinks this is all wonderfully amusing, it’s just her way— she actually called me up to see how things were going and if she was surprised I was still able to answer the phone she hid it well. She said there was some chicken that Asbo and I could share if we wanted. I told her he hadn’t asked for any and of course, she felt the need to point out, he’s a cat, of course he hasn’t asked you… I told her I’d just eaten and’d left some for later— she said, Oh, you’d better check that…
“The little shit, he’s…”
“What’s he done?” *snorting*
“He’s finished my sodding dinner!”
“What was it?” *still snorting*
“Chicken… Don’t you dare!”
“So he did want some chicken…”
Neither my dinner, nor the cat was anywhere to be seen…
Anyway, the other side of physical side is the stressy side— the anxiety of letting him loose, which isn’t much worse than knowing I’m in the house alone with him. It’s just I like to know that if he wants back in, I’ll be ready; maybe in some deluded way hoping that he’ll return the favour by not mauling me every time he sees me.
So naturally the knock on effect isn’t much fun; I feel slow and far, far duller than is usually the case. I need a quiet evening with the doorbell unplugged and a decent night’s sleep, then hopefully, I’ll be able to finish some work.
A man is like a cat; chase him and he will run—
Sit still and ignore him and he’ll come purring at your feet…