Love and Liberty

Of all the many posts I’ve started (either in my head, or more rarely with actual typing involved) in the last couple of months – most of the political ones are now woefully out of date and only marginally likely to see the light of day eventually out of historical interest – the one that I absolutely wasn’t going to write was the self-pitying personal one. I’ve tried to get up the enthusiasm to write, but even an imagined post of a few lines regarding Carry On Up the Khyber passed by at the weekend without setting fingers to keyboard. But this morning I’ve noticed after another rough night that I’ve managed to let a complete calendar month slip with nothing at all for the first time since I started this blog in 2006, which spoils my at times already tenuous record, leaves a gap in my sidebar and makes me more sourly dispirited but ironically (if no doubt temporarily) more interactive than usual.

I am, in case anyone’s concerned, still thoroughly committed to both Doctor Who and the Liberal Democrats, if with more muted enthusiasm for the recent adventures of both than usual. I am, however, just about self-aware enough to know that while this may be a function of Moffat and coalition (though Michael Howard yesterday slagging off what the latter’s doing does, naturally, help), being horribly ill and generally despising most things about my life right now means that it’ll take quite a bit of time before I can be in a proper position to judge, as there’s rather a large alternative reason for not enjoying things to be taken into account. Amongst other things it means I’m still not able to get out much, to put it mildly – I’ve managed to get further than the local shops three times in the best part of three months, after each of which I’ve completely collapsed for several days, so I’ve missed an awful lot to do with both Lib Dems and Who that I’d have wished for (just in the last few days: sorry, Jennie; sorry, Jago and Litefoot).

Richard is being very lovely, trying not to react when I’m a total git, trying to pretend he’s not worried at the repetitive sound of my retching, and trying not to look completely aghast at the state both and I and the flat have got into. I have on occasion been cheered a bit by e-mails from some very nice people, and I’m afraid I’ve not been replying to many, because while I appreciate it my appetite for interaction is significantly suppressed right now (sorry to several lovely people whose birthdays I’ve entirely ignored recently, too). So if anyone feels like cheering Richard up, please do, because he’s not having a great time with me.

Regular readers should know that, while I have several long-term health problems, the vomiting and all the other stuff that kicked off in mid-April have meant the last few months have been an awful lot worse, albeit that while there’s still at least one day a week every bit as bad as when it all started, over time I can I suppose note an improving trend. I can eat and keep it down most days (chocolate too, now, which is an enormous relief). But the general effect of being painfully and exhaustingly ill for a protracted period means that even when it’s very, very slowly abating, I’ve long since stopped putting a brave face on it and coping, and the additional pressure of feeling I have to compose blog pieces then keep them up, explain where I’ve been on Twitter and keep that up, reply to correspondence… Even if I felt any joy or confidence in writing, I’m afraid it’s still much simpler right now to batten down the hatches and not write anything that’ll mean I then have to write something else, which I’ll inevitably not manage.

In short, I’m still alive, just not enjoying it very much.

Labels: Health, Personal, Richard