I write this from my sickbed. One thin, pale hand faintly gripping my quill pen, ink bespattering my fine lawn nightie as I scratch down my thoughts, the servants tiptoeing around me as they add more coals to the fire and bring me my morning gruel.
I had to go into hospital last week for some non-life-threatening but fairly significant surgery, and am still very weak and feeble as a result. I was kept in overnight, which is incredible - isn't it wonderful what they can do with keyhole surgery these days - and have only had to take paracetamol and Ibuprofen to manage the pain. The single most tiresome after-effect is the tiredness, and physical inability to do Stuff.
I can't lift anything heavier than (for example) a half-full kettle, and bending over to try and pick something up from the floor is slow and painful. I'm becoming adept at using my foot to flick things up to within hands reach.
Not everything, obvs. Soft, flexible, grippable things like a sock, or a tea towel, or a tissue. If I drop a book on the floor, there it stays until Mr WithaY can pick it up for me.
I'm not allowed to drive for a month, possibly 6 weeks, which is already becoming irksome. Thankfully the weather since Christmas has been appalling, reducing my desire to go outside and stand in it. I am hoping that by the middle of next week, after my stitches have been removed, I will be able to go out with Mr WithaY and the dog for short strolls. I won't be able to hold the dog lead myself, as she instantly behaves like a world champion sled dog when put on the lead, but I will be able to accompany them.
Speaking of the weather, which of course I am, being British and all, hasn't it been wet? And windy? The river out the back has been raging, and a couple of times has overspilled the banks onto the meadow which our back garden is bounded by. According to The Internet, which is never wrong, most of Salisbury is under water, and the valley between here and there is now some sort of aquatic haven for all manner of waterfowl and (possibly) sea serpents.
Just to make things that bit more amusing, Mr WithaY has contracted the Village Cold, which all our neighbours had over the festive season. He is shuffling round the house, unable to breathe or hear properly, flushed of face and hoarse of voice. I look forward to catching that myself in due course, but hopefully it won't make me sneeze too often, as that hurts my poor hole-punched tummy.
Also, the dog had to wear one of these for a few days as she managed to stab herself with a stick (we think) whilst cavorting through the woods like a maniac:
I might get one too if my stitches start to get itchy.