Flattened

Back from a wonderful long weekend in London to a soggy, slightly bedraggled garden, and even soggier self. No sooner had I unpacked and taken in the effects of the heavy rain on the roses than I was struck down with a nasty flu bug, and so I'm languishing between my bed and the kettle. I had wondered what it would be like to be ill alone, and the answer so far is: not so bad. Help isn't far away if I need it, and all I really want to do is sleep, read, sleep some more. The giant tome "Life After Life" by Kate Atkinson is perfect for getting lost in, and staying lost for over 600 pages, its slippery temporal structure matched by the temporary impairment of my own grasp on reality brought on by a fever. Yesterday I decided to sprint into Waitrose to buy a load of microwave meals for the freezer, but I hadn't reckoned on the road into Saxmundham being closed, with the official diversion sending traffic via Inverness. Twenty miles later I got there, exhausted, barely able to get out of the car. But it's done now, and though I have no appetite it's reassuring to know that I have easy food if I need it. Later that day I had a long phone chat with the gardening contractor who is due to move mountains of earth on Tuesday. We discussed ordering the topsoil and the turf, the order of play - all very reassuring. Pity the long-range weather forecast is currently showing rain for the scheduled date. But I'm not downhearted at the prospect of another delay, possibly something to do with the slight euphoria that comes with a raised temperature. Something to be said for flu.