Sad, lady? I could be sad
Nov. 20th, 2011 03:38 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
desperanceThe mistake appears to be eating. Or sleeping. Either one.
Yesterday I thought I was getting better. I believed in the antibiotics. I was confident.
Today? Not so much. Woke up at five, seriously hurting. Have spent the day cycling through the pharmacopoeia, keeping things tolerable; but I don't feel well, and I don't know if that's drugs or infection or what. And I'm still bloody sore. It is, unsurprisingly, worse after eating. I do kind of need to eat, but. It may not have been coincidence, that after lovely dinner with![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
fjm I was awake and in pain all night. Mostly I have been going easy on myself since then, but.
I have been recovering my baking-mojo, restoring my sourdough starter. Today I baked a loaf with part-granary flour, only I can't really eat it: all that lovely crunchy crust, an invitation to disaster. Le sigh. (Do Americans even know what I mean by granary flour - wholewheat with malted grains mixed in? It's one of the bafflements of shopping there, that the bread-flours seem really sparse of variety, and granary stands out in its absence.)
So, yup. Am feeling low and hurty, and I can't even drink. It's funny, this non-drinking: it's really quite easy, except if I want to do anything. Reminds me of giving up smoking: easiest thing in the world, except if I wanted to work or socialise, because smoking was intimately woven into both those things, and those things mostly summed up my life. It's a little different now because I don't tend to start drinking till the evening, but even so. I can read books, watch TV, cook without even thinking about it. It's about this time of day - 4.00pm - that I stop trying to think about working, because that's where I need a glass of the wine that I cannot have, and tea is somehow not a substitute. I don't want to go out, because because. All my social rites are apparently bound up with alcohol. And am feeling low and hurty, etc etc. Even my paragraphs are cyclical.
Yesterday I thought I was getting better. I believed in the antibiotics. I was confident.
Today? Not so much. Woke up at five, seriously hurting. Have spent the day cycling through the pharmacopoeia, keeping things tolerable; but I don't feel well, and I don't know if that's drugs or infection or what. And I'm still bloody sore. It is, unsurprisingly, worse after eating. I do kind of need to eat, but. It may not have been coincidence, that after lovely dinner with
fjm I was awake and in pain all night. Mostly I have been going easy on myself since then, but.I have been recovering my baking-mojo, restoring my sourdough starter. Today I baked a loaf with part-granary flour, only I can't really eat it: all that lovely crunchy crust, an invitation to disaster. Le sigh. (Do Americans even know what I mean by granary flour - wholewheat with malted grains mixed in? It's one of the bafflements of shopping there, that the bread-flours seem really sparse of variety, and granary stands out in its absence.)
So, yup. Am feeling low and hurty, and I can't even drink. It's funny, this non-drinking: it's really quite easy, except if I want to do anything. Reminds me of giving up smoking: easiest thing in the world, except if I wanted to work or socialise, because smoking was intimately woven into both those things, and those things mostly summed up my life. It's a little different now because I don't tend to start drinking till the evening, but even so. I can read books, watch TV, cook without even thinking about it. It's about this time of day - 4.00pm - that I stop trying to think about working, because that's where I need a glass of the wine that I cannot have, and tea is somehow not a substitute. I don't want to go out, because because. All my social rites are apparently bound up with alcohol. And am feeling low and hurty, etc etc. Even my paragraphs are cyclical.