RUN INTO THE GROUND

My stomach creaks like an old ship. It's been doing that all night. I don't want to get into unpleasant descriptions but every now and then it's also been emptying itself like an antiquated bilge pump.

I don't like being ill. It's horrible. First of all I have a kind of hard-wired feeling that I'm skiving, bunking off, not pulling my weight. It's hard to shake that feeling, a feeling which also serves as a keen reminder that I'm always a thousand times harsher on myself than I would be with anyone else. I'm not stupid; I know it's pride in reverse, but there we go. I can give myself a break I think.

It's also very boring. The radio presenters are twittering on about the state of the world, the strikes on the railways and the dangers of kickboxing. I've read a few articles about nothing of any great consequence, and I've done a bit of research for my trip to Cardiff. That leaves sleeping, and entertaining myself in the world of my dreams, which are a mixed bag.

So much for hibernating. My body is giving me daily reminders now, that I have run myself into the ground this year. I don't like it, but it seems to be true. And this season of advent bells and hope and busyness and carols and expectation... is too heavy for me. I haven't even started buying presents yet and I have no idea when I'll get to do that. It'll work out.

I'm feeling a little brighter now. At some points through the night, my stomach was cramped with pain and I couldn't straighten out. My throat was dry and my insides felt like they'd been arranged upside-down. I wondered whether I would ever want to eat anything ever again.

It turns out I could, I think. I've got just enough to make a bacon sandwich or scrambled egg on toast.