I’m feeling very queasy when I wake up. There’s a lot of aching in my back and legs, reminiscent of the “Infection Incident” of a few months ago. In this case there is no doubt that it’s related to my lifting immoderately heavy objects yesterday. I send off some work (I realise that the day before Christmas Eve is a bit late for this, but better late than… or maybe not, actually). The nastiness gets worse, with shivering and so forth. I had intended to spend this afternoon doing my Christmas shopping, but decide that the time would be better spent dropping into a hallucinatory fit, which is what I do.
I further intend to get up at six and prepare myself to go to the Three Stags for the Jam, but my body denies me even that. I have the radio on, and so am drifting in and out of the programmes – a play about the late Delia Derbyshire, which suffers from radio play-writers’ regrettable tendency to turn their research directly into dialogue. At some point I switch it to Radio 3, and get Wynton Marsalis being very assertive about his technical grooviness (it seems to go on for days, but that’s the affliction talking, I suspect). Then through the night, which seems to feature an unusual quantity of organ music (that is to say, some)
Most of the time is spent asleep, of course, but in my waking moments I am aware that I have stepped into a parallel universe – I have several convictions re tossing and turning technique that make no sense at all now.