Creeping Forward

It’s that time of year again. In fact, based on this post, bizarrely it actually was a whole year ago since the last time I was hobbled like this.


The week started out just fine and dandy, getting together with Work Buddy and meeting up with an old friend we hadn’t seen for bloody ages. Then Tuesday morning everything was going well, in fact, scooting through Soho I even discovered I was much taller than Brian Blessed.

But on the way home yesterday everything started to grind to a halt. Curled up in the seat, unable to concentrate on the newspaper’s Su Dokus, I was taken with a sudden case of creeping death.

Since then life has been divided between the bedroom and bathroom. When I haven’t been flat on my back, or scribbling some increasingly bizarre notes in the pad beside the bed, I’ve been re-reading David Wild’s The Showrunners, about a select number of programme makers trying to survive the 1998-99 season. Less than ten years ago, the television landscape then appears so quaint.

Woken up by the telephone ringing just after 8:15 this evening, I thought it was the alarm clock announcing the arrival of Thursday morning. Though feeling better I’m a little out of sync. So what I was going to write about this week will have to wait.