I am lying in my bed wearing my black satin bathrobe; not because I feel in any way sexy, but because it was impossible to get myself properly dressed after wrangling my way out of the bath towel. I had inched my way from the bedroom to the bathroom by clinging to the walls along the hallway and spent the ensuing time in the shower gripping onto the glass and hoping I wouldn't land in a wet crumpled heap on the floor. I can't get comfortable in bed, yet I can't sit or stand either. So I am surrounded on all sides by bags of crochet and balls of yarn, and a half-finished sock project that was meant to be a Christmas present, and a few knitting magazines and the remnants of the chocolate wrappers of indiscretions past ...
Through my drug-induced haze (prescription only and entirely legal) I am displaying only a vague interest in adding to my pink flowered crochet garland whilst dreaming about long tall glasses of brandy lime and soda by the pool that we don't have and the expansive beach house that we probably won't be able to afford to rent next Christmas. Cest la vie ...
Ah, Lunch has just arrived. See, miracles do happen.
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