it's so boring being sick

Argh, me hearties. Lying here under my rose satin eiderdown (provenance uncertain but we think it may have appeared in Father Ted) for the third day running (post-hosp), both feeling and looking a bit worse than yesterday, sorting out in a dizzyheaded fashion some essentials - to wit, that I was £160 overdrawn, & have had to bail myself out with savings, which engendered in turn a nasty shock in the savings department, which in turn puts one's mind to pieces of eight. The money was clearly just resting in my account, as Father Ted himself might say.

Eaten toast and marmite (no butter), steamed broccoli and carrots with beetroot (no butter) and some prunes. No tea but that's because I wish someone else could make it for me. My jogging bottoms are falling off - which is a good thing but I don't have the energy to retie the string. Which is a bad thing. Dithered so long over the Ocado order that I lost my delivery time twice. It's scary deciding what to eat. Any single thing might make another little stone decide to play outside. What's the difference between low fat and really low fat?

I read some poetry. I've finished Persuasion - ah, now, speaking of naval matters, there is a fine book! It makes me want to go to Bath. And Lyme. And from that, with all its little certainties growing out of a small world and its strictures, to Durs Grünbein, a German poet maybe about my age who has no such complacency about him, navigating as he is in the Waters of Uncertainty that we call our present age (in Austen he'd be Admiral Grünbein). As always with translated poetry, I'm slowing myself down on the parallel text. It seems so much better in the German, but I can't read it! Even that seems fitting somehow though for a long sequence of 13-line poems (not quite sonnets) called Variations on No Theme.

But this makes me look more alert than I am. There was a tawdry old Dirk Bogarde movie; and the second half of Goodbye, Mr Chips; and the remote's broken again. Now I'm just lying here.