I have spent the day in bed (no, I still don't have a bed, but you know what I mean). I am not properly sick, just a bit feeble, which is of course the very best state to be in for a day in bed. I have four big feathery pillows, one of those nice silky quilts in a pretty mid blue and all white bed linen. I have a Diptyque Feu de Bois candle burning, low, cheery lighting, a pile of good novels and endless pints of tea. The room is entirely clutter free and warm and it's freezing outside with odd flurries of snow, which only adds to the delight of being on the inside. The weepette is dozing alternately under the covers at my feet, or on top of the quilt within affectionate ear tugging distance. I have my little fire. It's all so perfect, like a bright sickroom scene from What Katy Did. All except me.
I am not a brave, bright eyed nineteenth century heroine, dying bravely and decorously. I am a strenuously 21st century hag with a minor cough, and I have been spoiling the idyll by alternately fidgeting around with my laptop and falling deeply, uncomfortably asleep in outlandish positions, to dream of financial emergencies and trying to dispose of corpses. After these naps I wake up wildly flailing and confused, drool all over my pillow, appalled to be awake and guilty for sleeping. I am rubbish at relaxing. Rubbish.
It hasn't mattered much though, because it's still the delicious badness of a skive. I have eaten a caramel tart in my bed, feeding the crusts to the weepette, read my silly novel and listened to Radio 4 plays. I haven't thought about transport logistics, unsold and unbought tickets, missing deliveries or missed deadlines. Or, rather, I have, but I have told myself not to. It will all still be there tomorrow.
Damn, I fell asleep again. I'm giving up on this. It is my day off after all.