Yesterday, climbing the ice-sheeted steps to my flat, I skidded, fell and swore industrial strength oaths, because I had managed to jolt a nerve somewhere between shoulder-blade and cervical spine that has been hammered before; once in a car accident, once when I slept on the floor and trapped it, and two or three times more in the days when I used to use weights. It never quite stops nagging at me, and now I have to move with robot-like deliberation to avoid jarring it again. Anyway, this explains why I am typing this sitting up in bed, with a big cafetiere of black coffee and a bowl of Marks and Sparks Middle-Class Poncy Porridge ‘with cranberries and blueberries’, instead of sitting on a train en route to five hours of academic writing with my Arab students. Actually, even if I had not gone arse over tit on the steps I’d still be here, because the trains were all cancelled this morning, but my bad back means I will not have to go in at all until Monday, even if the snow evaporates by midday. (No chance.)
The view from my window is enchanting, pure Christmas card, and the little square around which these houses sit looks like a huge trifle. When I have finished this coffee, in my own good time, I shall bloody well make another pot. I have over a dozen books as yet uncracked and four days in which to crack them. I am definitely not complaining.