I have seen better days

Sunday has slipped into Monday, I am at present going with this flow, unlike the great King Cnut, I feel no need to control the perpetual ebb and flow of days, let them wash over me, until one day a messenger brings me news that my patience has been rewarded.

I fell asleep, narrowly missing out on my best score, but I feel no resentment, I expect to reach new heights before your return, and I've promised myself to stop playing then too.

I fear it really has become an addiction. It soothes me, mindlessly blasting bricks into oblivion...I am sad to report that my lungs are not holding up, they've been overcome by a lurid green mucus, and I sound more and more like a wheezing old codger. My throat is red and my nose blocked. If this is the state of play mid-week, I'll visit the G.P. but I'm not sure what they can do for me, because I've diagnosed myself.

Its a clear case of longingforhusbanditis, I miss you and this is my body's response.

I'm going to do my best to work, my head is foggy but I'll try goddamit. I may take a bit more sleep, but I'm looking forward to the peace of a house to myself, and I take comfort in knowing you'll have the day to yourself too. I must return to my slave duties, shirts to be ironed and sandwiches to be made...