Despite having taken in enough honey, lemons, limes, cinnaon quills, cassia, mint, cloves and grated ginger to restock the Spice Islands, I have bronchitis.
So I am staying in bed with the 12×12 and a PD James detective novel, plenty of sweet tea and waiting out the fevers and misery. This too shall pass. In time I hope I shall get better at surrendering gracefully and learning to trust. I am curled up like a snouty bad-tempered hedgehog, all prickles and no grace. My eyes feel slitty and mean and I have ordered my small dogs to stay on a pillow in the corner of the room. My housemate has fled in search of more pleasant company. My cell phone is switched off so I cannot whine or snap at well-meaning friends. I found myself wanting to log onto forums and bicker, so I am giving the Internet a wide berth. There are enough crazies out there without my adding to their number.
Feeling ill is a trigger for self-pity and resentment. That is possibly why I enjoy reading about murder most foul while my sinuses leak and my head thumps and my chest congests. Somebody is to blame.
But my pilllows are plumped up, the window looks out on a green and blossoming garden, my quilted duvet is goosedown, there is a large glass of iced water and a pot of Earl Grey tea on my bedside table, and Mozart is playing in the living room. Gratitude, damn it, I tell the snuffly beast, show some gratitude!