July 27, 2014

Apologies

 

This is the worst the ME has been in years . . . possibly since I first started struggling up off the sofa again occasionally, about eighteen months after I went down with it for the first, spectacular, devastating time fourteen and a half years ago.*

And the furniture lorry arrives at 8 a.m. on Friday morning whether I’m ready or not.  Whether I’m upright or not.**

It’s cooled off some, but not enough, and there’s still no rain—and no rain forecast.***  The hellhounds still aren’t eating.  At all.  I’m surrounded by half-packed boxes and piles of things that have been pulled off shelves or out of cupboards and . . .

. . . I think I need to go lie down again.

* * *

* Which is to say thirteen years ago.^  Enough to make you superstitious.

^ Good thing I’m not likely to see in any more millennia.  However you count it—2000 or 2001—it was not a good time for me and I might feel a little, well, superstitious, if I saw a lot of zeroes bearing down on me again.  But even Methuselah didn’t quite make a thousand, so I’m assuming I’m safe.

** Last night—26 July—is one of our two big anniversaries:  the meeting-Peter-Dickinson-at-the-Bangor-Maine-airport-oh-wow-oops one.  We always go out and have a big splashy dinner.  Last night we cancelled.  I couldn’t have sat up in a chair long enough.  I know.  Worse things happen.  But on the Comprehensive Demoralisation Scale it’s right up there.

*** There may be the odd local thunderstorm on Friday.  If we actually have one of the odd local thunderstorms, which will be a first since this no-rain thing began about a month ago, it will certainly be punctiliously restricted to the corridor between the mews’ front door and the back of the lorry, all the rain^ will run straight into the gravel of the courtyard, and everybody’s gardens and potted plants will still be lying there gasping pathetically.

^ Except the rain-god’s special water-grenades which will explode under whatever plastic sheeting careful furniture removal men deploy on such occasions, and will leave irredeemable squiggles on the polished wood of Peter’s few nice old family pieces.  May these prove to be runes for the cure of ME.

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