Well, I said I wouldn’t talk about my health anymore and, after three days of being virtually comatose, I find I have written no posts at all. I should be more careful what I say.

Last week I was given antibiotics and steroids and sent away to recover. It got a little better. Today I went back, was given more steroids and two sorts of inhaler. I’m possibly a little better again. The truth is that I have been flattened by whatever I have. I’not written anything or read anything for about 10 days – apart from a few jottings from time to time and the blog posts. The blogging habit it so hard to break that it is almost automatic. And even then, as you can see, I did eventually break. I am just about to begin reading one of my Christmas presents, so a recovery is clearly coming.

One of the things that has worried me over the last few weeks was the prospect of knowing that I am a poet but being unable to write anything, as my faculties decline.

I’ve even found it difficult to watch entire TV programmes and have made much use of catch-up services to fill in the gaps. Sometimes that isn’t enough to stay awake through an entire programme so I cut my losses. If a TV programme is not interesting enough for me to stay awake after two attempts, I consign it to the metaphorical cutting room floor in my head.

Sadly, that’s it, a complete description of my Christmas. Mental shutdown and visits to the doctor. When I do one of those blogs like “My Ten Best Christmases” don’t expect to find 2023 in there.

However, as I often feel compelled to say in summing up, I still have a roof over my head, and am dry and (reasonably) warm. I have also been able to see a doctor (twice) when I needed one and have been given plenty of drugs at no additional cost. There are, I am sure, people who would be happy to swap with me.