I’ve had several inquiries as to the state of my health – you are all so very, very kind and supportive, bless you. Well, it has been a bit of a saga. When I last posted, I had just scored drugs off my doctor, although I was not keen on taking them as I am no great fan of antibiotics unless in dire circumstances. I decided to start taking them on Saturday morning but when Saturday rolled around I was feeling much better. You may imagine how I cheered. I felt so proud of myself: not only would I avoid taking antibiotics, I had the pleasure of thinking I had fought off the infection by myself, indicating a strong upturn in my general health. So Saturday I was a very cheerful bunny. Then on Sunday I didn’t feel quite so good again, but I thought to myself that often I have a little relapse when getting over illnesses, so it was probably nothing and would pass. But alas, on Monday, the infection was back and worse than it had been last week.
So I started taking the antibiotics. I appear to have neither lapsed into coma nor self-combusted, which is excellent news. Today my symptoms are certainly diminished, which is also good, but I cannot say that I feel fine, exactly. In fact I feel wiped out, sickly and fragile. The problem is that after so many years of chronic fatigue I find it very hard to have patience with myself when ill. I am so bored of feeling unwell and have felt in the past so frustrated by it, that it is difficult to tolerate anything less than reasonably good health. Plus it is my parents’ 50th wedding anniversary party next Saturday and I have to be well for that. I’ve even got a new dress to wear, and I can’t remember the last time I bought something new for an occasion.
So I am trying very hard not to stress. As ever, books help. Although I might have to put aside Dorothy Whipple’s They Were Sisters. Not because it’s bad, not at all, but because the domestic tyrant it features is behaving so atrociously that it’s upsetting me (I come over all hyper-sensitive when poorly). I could do with a good robust narrative, one in which nothing terrible happens, or at least it only happens to people who deserve their comeuppance. I have The Sailor’s Ransom, from a new Victorian detective series by Brian Thompson to read, which is a possibility. Or maybe something by Edith Wharton, who isn’t exactly jolly but who writes so elegantly it’s like a long cool drink of water on a hot day. Or maybe a Lee Child thriller. I don’t know; I want something easy and undemanding, but I want it to be entertaining,too. What do other people read when under the weather? Do you have a favourite genre or author you turn to?