The good news. The touch of pleurisy has been just that, a touch. Although it felt at times like one giant hand forcing me down onto a horizontal surface whenever I wanted to get up. Still does, a bit, the hand seems to get smaller and weaker, however. But let's not dwell on this, might jinx it. Ride it out, wait and see. No more fever at least.
The German translation of pleurisy is Rippenfellentzündung, literally inflammation of the fur on your ribs. Which brings to mind fairy tale witches with mangy cat furs wrapped around shoulders and aching backs, beaked noses, with something dripping from it, and cackles.
My head is sore. This being November doesn't help. Out there, the light is either too bright or too grey.
I get distracted while I try to distract myself from my self pity. Instead of reading I find myself picking words from the page, words with i, like inchoate, inconsequence, irreversible, idiot. Yep, all on one page.
Down beyond the garden hedge I watch the birds on my neighbour's trees. Two mature fruit trees, leafless but full of fruit, wrinkled purple plums and fat yellow apples. Since her partner walked out some time ago, she and her two daughters have ignored the garden, now a wild jungle. We are all welcome to help ourselves, she said as a by the way. But we all just watch the birds and smile politely.
Sometimes my child is just too far away.