The Cold Light of Day

The words are expressed so gently, sensibly, and realistically, that one scarcely recognizes the harsh reality that underpins them! But, in the cold light of a new dawn, the bitter truth strikes home; I have lain and tossed and turned in the duvet realm for nine hours and fifty-nine minutes and, now is the moment of truth.

Under the strict new regime, initiated by the sainted Julie of Chronic Fatigue Services, one must strive to avoid periods in excess of 10 hours in bed. Stiff-necked and aching hipped, I roll myself off the mattress; slowly I insert my arms into the velour sleeves of my dressing gown and, stumble down the stairs for a quick nicotine fix (a medicinal dose to overcome the trauma of this early morning endeavour). I venture back up the wooden hill, adopt a semi-recumbent posture on the bed as I apply emollient to the lower limbs. So far so bad but, I even manage to fit myself up in daytime garments and resist the urge to lie down for a further period of rest.

On paper, the routine stinks of reasonableness and, I approve of its goal! A slowly returning normality is not a prize to be scoffed at and, I am still encouraged to take necessary rests; just like the Inquisition, although the rack may be more subtle, the aim is the salving of my soul.