That sounds very literary and invalidish, but in fact I have arisen from the sickbed, crammed with flu meds and fuelled with fresh orange juice, and the sun has come out. Self-care is not difficult if one is not pouring litres of alcohol into a sick body and I have a large bowl of oranges and bananas and papayas and tiny green limes on the kitchen table.
Yesterday afternoon I walked down to see the lonely Sheila — the rain caught me in a sudden cloudburst and I arrived soaked and miserable. She was surrounded by friends all eating cream cakes and drinking champagne, and holding court like some hypochondriac courtesan. I was furious. Nothing so irksome as wasted sympathy and Sheila is quite capable of sorting out her loneliness without my help. So I refused cream cakes or champagne, stayed for a short while and then dragged myself home to bed.
Tossed and turned for hours and kept getting up to drink water and refill my hot-water bottle. Had a call from Una, enthralled by an electric thunderstorm with sheet lightning but miserable and wanting to come home. Read some of Thomas Moore’s Dark Nights of the Soul which made me feel like a metaphysical sissy.
I have invited a friend over for lunch and will make a great vegetable soup to have with crusty bread. If I call the vegetable soup minestrone, I can toss in little bits of pasta and that will take the soup into a higher dimension of cucina peasant cooking from Italy. Let me see if I have some tomato puree in the store cupboard…