Sick bed August 10, 2006Posted by BiB in Uncategorized.
Darlings, I’m writing from my sick bed. Which is much like my normal bed, only I writhe about whinily in this one. Let no-one praise nature ever again. Whoever created us, the world, its moons and everything else also created volcanoes, earthquakes, Stoke-on-Trent and toothache, lest we forget.
Darlings, I’m too tanked up on painkillers and red wine – I think that’s the encouraged combination, nicht wahr? – to write anything coherent. I have done nothing but sleep and pop pills for a day-and-a-half. Now I am writhing and writing at 2am, the Russian looking unsympathetically on and asking, “What are you moaning about, дура (female idiot)?” or words to that effect.
The pain, the pain. I now know for sure I’d be hopeless at withstanding torture. I will not be stoical in the face of any major disease.
Give me wine. Give me drugs. Give me sleep. Give me peace.