Thursday 2nd May

One of the writers I used to be impressed by in the early seventies was John Berger.  Among other interesting works was a collaboration with a photographer detailing a country doctor’s life.  One thing which John Berger said has stayed with me, and that is that there is a certain point at which one admits that one is ill and seeks help.  At that point the person becomes a patient and puts themselves into the hands of the healer.   It may be embarrassment or pain or the comments of loved ones that tips the balance and persuades you that you are in fact ill.

On Tuesday, despite my protestations that if ‘I did not do my work, I had to do my work’, I decided or was persuaded to have a day off work.  This is such a rare occurence for me that I cannot remember the last time, a few years ago I think.   I was feeling pretty awful and what at first was a concession to just do a half day and come home early soon became a full-blown day off.  Yes, I will still have to do the work, but I will go to the place I missed on the next two consecutive evenings and pick up as much data as I can and finish it on Friday, my day off.

So, that was the point at which I succumbed to my illness, even agreeing to take myself back to bed where I fitfully slept most of the morning.  And rising at midday I mooched around in a dressing gown and sporadically watched some snooker or fell asleep on the sofa.  I was desperately tired at ten that evening, despite having slept for most of the day and took myself off to my pit as soon as decency allowed.

This morning, although not that much better, my symptoms having settled down to a degree that is just about tolerable I am back at work.  I am not sure what good having the day off actually achieved, but the moment I stopped insisting I was okay, and actually succumbed to my sickness I entered another phase where I became officially ‘poorly’, and now if anyone asks I am recovering and feeling a bit better, thank-you.