Yesterday, I released myself from the duvet lair sometime after 10.30am then did very little apart from despatching a few e-mails as part of the Armchair Army in solidarity with the "TUC March for the Alternative". I also felt quite privileged that my name was borne on a Broken Of Britain T-shirt worn by one of the marchers.
I did manage a little walk with my beloved, nowhere near as far as I'd hoped even though a little further than the previous afternoons totally abortive attempt (on that occasion muscular spasms in thighs, as well as calves, conspired with a spontaneous dissipation of my limited stamina reserve, to thwart the endeavour). Even with just that minimal activity I felt totally shattered and reluctantly retired to bed at 9.00pm (GMT) with not even an egg-spoon of stamina in reserve.
Ma belle and I did attempt to watch a bit of light-relief TV, au lit, but sheer exhaustion won out over entertainment. I did, however, remember to put the clocks forward, in readiness for the early morning transition from GMT to BST. I seemed to manage a little more sleep than I do on many nights but, I still felt shattered when I emerged from the duvet realm at 10.30am (BST).
I've never fully recovered all-day today, even having to divide my modest dinner portion into two - split between lunchtime and teatime - to give my ailing digestion an easier task. Apart from the abdominal discomfort, familiar cramping spasms in calf muscles have formed an unholy alliance with excruciating twinges in my thighs whenever any movement necessitated even a moderate degree of stretching.
Visits to the loo have been irritatingly frequent, the dreaded gut-rot has plagued me all day. A differently aching muzzy head and spasmodic bouts of sneezing have added to the day's rich tapestry; for the first time in ages I suspect that I could be coming down with a cold! Considering that for several months before, or when, I first succumbed to ME I constantly struggled with flu-like symptoms – full-blown colds have been markedly absent during the past seven years