It’s been an exceptionally busy day – laundry, food delivery, taking crap out to the bin, tidying, haircut, beard shearing – all beyond me for so long.
Now, though, not only do I feel good, I look good too – I look a good 10 years younger than I did when I got out of hospital last week, and that’s no exaggeration (well OK, maybe 5 years!).
For a start I’ve reverted to the style of my avi – closely trimmed moustache and goatee in newly acquired sparkling white, topped by a No. 1 that’s not quite as white, still retaining enough black to look distinguished (look, this is my fantasy, OK?).
And I hesitate to say this, as it’s so long since it’s been even remotely true, but I actually do feel well. All topped off with an Emmylou Harris marathon and a bottle of wine – life doesn’t get much better.
Well, it could. A very good friend is leaving the country shortly, and I doubt she knows how badly she’ll be missed – she kept me sane in hospital (cleaned my flat too!), and was there for me when I finally lost it, big-time, the day I got out – at that point I just wanted to die. Perverse after all I’d been through trying not to (the tale of the screwed-up colonoscopy and the multiple ruptured veins is yet to come).
I didn’t die, of course, and I’m set fair for recovery, barring accidents but, Fi – you’ll still be missed, dreadfully.