I am lying in my bed drinking lemon and honey.

My doctor’s in his counting house counting out his money.

I swear he sees me coming and rubs his hands in ill-concealed glee.

I have a standing appointment for the remainder of winter. Everyday at 15:00. If no-one is sick then they’ll let it go, otherwise it’s my slot. And every second day for the last 2 weeks we’ve needed it.

Now it is my turn.

I sound like Jack Nicholson. A female version.

I look like the grim reaper on a particularly bad day.

I feel like a day old corpse mouldering in the grave.

Scratch that. A zombie. Brain-dead. Oozing.

Wheel turning, no hamster.

And the letters on the keyboard keep getting away from me and skittering all over the place.

Of course there is no rest for the wicked.

A third-party is arriving shortly to try to convey to me what my client feels is “missing” from her radio scripts. Apparently, she can’t find her words so she is sending someone else to try to use theirs to communicate this elusive missing link.

I don’t care anymore.

I’ll write anything she wants.

I just want to go to bed and periodically groan loudly and incomprehensibly in the hope someone in my family might find an iota of sympathy and make me a cup of tea.

 

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