By the time I went off for my nap yesterday, at about 15:00, I was glowing and happy after a good, productive day. Got in some worthwhile reading, poetry of course, and covered a sheet of yellow paper with lines that may become a new poem. Or may not; it’s the process that counts and I was fair fizzing with it.
And then, when I woke, my brain had turned to cold porridge. The horrid, turgid feeling is still with me today.
Yesterday’s dinner didn’t help. I’d chosen to go with cod steaks in parsley sauce, thinking it would be a good autumn dish when served with a heap of mashed potato and a couple of spoons of sweet garden peas. This is an old favourite with us, a tasty if uninspiring meal, and Graham enjoyed his with all of his usual gusto, ending with a clean, polished plate. Me, I poked at it, got through it all, but when I arrived at the end I was almost but not quite entirely lacking in the will to eat, so my residual sauce got rinsed away.
I could do with a good rinsing away myself today. A hefty dose of little yellow liver pills will sort me out but I can’t do it until this evening. I’m going for my annual seasonal ‘flu jab this afternoon and I don’t want to risk a turbulent tummy while that’s going on. Better turgid than turbulent when facing a needle.
Isn’t it gruesome, though, the way the intellect can be reduced to cold, morning-after porridge by something so ordinary as a clogged gut?
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