Sunday 1st April
Am I tempting fate with that statement, I hope not. But if this is the last ever post on this web-site you will know it was a foolish statement to make. But compared to everyone else I am actually never ill. I worked for about fifteen years before Edward insisted I stop, and then I did charity work for many years after that. In all that time I never had a single day off sick. At school I always won the book-token prize for attendance, though this was probably down to Grandma and her “Now come on girl, buck yourself up. Staying at home won’t make you better, let’s be having you. Come on, you’ll be late for school if you don’t hurry up.”
Of course I get ill, I get a cold every year, but there is a difference between feeling a bit off colour, under the weather, and deciding that you are ill, because it is a decision that you take; to be ill. At a certain point, either through physical pain or discomfort, or embarrassment, or concern that it may be something worse one decides to be ill, or at least to consult a doctor. And some people actually love to be ill, they love the cosseting, the sympathy of others, the wallowing in self-pity that ensues from declaring that they are ill. And why is it such a female trait to love discussing their ailments, in quite revolting detail too I am afraid. I don’t think that men generally indulge in intimate discussions of the state of their penises as us women seem to love with relation to our genitalia. I am so fed up of hearing about cystitis and thrush from my girlfriends that I always try to change the subject. I really do not want to discuss with anyone my own bodily functions, thank you very much. And maybe it is this natural reserve I have that stops me from deciding that I am ill; maybe it is inherited, my mother though often depressed was never physically ill, and though in her eighties now is still going strong; maybe it is that I walk everywhere, I gave up driving years ago, but maybe it is just luck. Whatever the cause I simply am never really ill.