I've turned into Fenella Fielding with a ninety a day habit. That's what I sound like anyway, with my husky, bar room voice and hacking cough. So I've 'taken to my bed'. Such a splendid Victorian phrase. How right they were too. A day cocooned in the fluffiness of my duvet and goose down pillows, a day where the hardest decision will be whether my next soothing drink should be hot chocolate or tea, or whether to read some more Adrian Mole or listen to Woman's Hour. These decisions are so difficult to make I am really relieved I'm not the prime minister, having to decide between thermo nuclear war or sanctions. The tea bag question is testing enough.
It was very exciting to realise I can connect to the twenty first century with my little netbook, and become a pest e-mailing my work colleagues, who I am missing, from the snuggliness of my mattress. I can also take the opportunity to reinforce my current brainwashing programme. Yes, Paul McKenna is kindly sorting my life out via a rather dull CD. All I have to do is listen to the half hour of rather droning blurb every day for all eternity and I transform into another being. Very strangely and unexpectedly (being a cynical type) it seems to be working. I will soon be more me-like. Whether or not that's a good thing will be for you to judge.
Maybe I should see whether there's an 'I can help you become more decisive' CD - then I'd know whether I'm having chicken or tomato soup for lunch.
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