You’ll have to excuse me if I’m a little distracted this week, a little off my game. You see, the doctor has prescribed me some medicine to prevent me getting so many migraines—four or five a month is considered by experts ‘too many’, she said (she should try it from the inside sometime). So the number of brightly coloured pills I have to take has increased by one; and as a result the world has slowed down.
Rather a lot, in fact. Honestly, I had to check to see if they’d mixed up my prescription with elephant tranquillisers by mistake. I now have such a tendency to slump forward over my desk that the cleaner is demanding extra payments to keep my keyboard free of drool; or at least a bucket to wring out her cloth. My colleague keeps a spoon handy so she can hold it up to my lips to see if I’m still breathing. Like someone in an Edgar Allen Poe story, each time I close my eyes I expect to open them on a sealed coffin lid.
On the other hand, a week has passed and no migraines. So now I have a decision to make: do I live the rest of my life at half speed, shuffling about like an inmate of a retirement home for the recently undead, but free of pain; or do I rejoin the human race, but accept that two or three days a week I shall be as broken as Humpty Dumpty? (There are many reasons why I hope God exists; but increasingly it’s so that I can give Him a piece of my mind—preferably the piece that’s responsible for migraines.)
It’s had a knock-on effect on the knitting, as my evenings are now spent counting my fingers and falling asleep before I get to ten. Even so, I’m inching my way up the front, about halfway up the yoke. (Incidentally, we forgot last week to include a picture of the completed back, minus shoulders, so here it is.)
Since all my eyesight problems kicked in a few years back, I’ve found nothing goes so well with knitting as listening to audiobooks. Terry Pratchett always works well, as does Charles Dickens—we’re listening to the splendid Our Mutual Friend at the moment. Of course, you have to be careful with modern fiction—few things are more disconcerting than signing for a parcel at the front door while an energetic sex scene plays out in the background, complete with farmyard noises.
On the parish notices front, happy New Year to Harley and Pat Sutherland—thank you so much for your card! And a special mention to Tamar, Judit and Gracie, who posted the most comments last year (well, after me, but I don’t think I count). I don’t have any special prizes to give out, alas, except that I plan to continue the blog throughout 2013, and it’s the enthusiasm of so many readers and posters that persuades me to keep going.
Thanks also to Evelyn for nominating me for the wholly mysterious Liebster Blog Award. Apparently you’re supposed to recommend five other blogs for your readers to try—but I do that anyway, and selecting just five would be unfair. So can I suggest that readers take the opportunity to suggest other blogs they think people would find interesting?
And so, as the caffeine pills wear off, and I return to my narcoleptic coma, and my strands of drool start to resemble the web of an incontinent spider experiencing a sneezing fit, it’s time to catch up on some z’s.