Nice. Now I'm under a house arrest – which is only ever fun if you *have* to go somewhere. If you're really bored and unfocused and yearn for a bagel, then this sucks. All my ideas about spending five or so years in my lonely wooden tower usually last about a day – then I pick up the phone and call some of my girl homies and we hit the coffee&cake place down the street.

    The real bitch about having my immune system (the nurse mentioned I visit twice a decade and even then it’s usually because I’ve crashed something), doctor tells me, is that all those tiny little fuckers that get into my body, instantly hit a wall of guards and most DOA – alas, a viruses are the most advanced life form in existence, some stay hidden, dormant, sleeping cells, stuck to the remote, lazy little corners of my vascular mess. Three years later, I am a carrier to about twenty infections, just waiting for one bad day. Not even my strict diets of chocolate, coke and kebabs can keep me up forever. General is so pleased: he claims I got sick when we climbed the Pyrewood hill, which is not something chubby old ladies are supposed to do. He now has me under house arrest. Normally I wouldn’t notice any difference, but being ill also means you feel like *. Nothing much I try to do engages me. Not even eating. And that’s def con five.

My antibiotics should come available tomorrow and although tempted to storm this one out by sheer will of force and fatty sugars, it’s only so much gasping and crying when peeing I can take before admitting defeat. And instead of a neat spring apple juice, my pee looks like a two week old tea, thick, brown and with funny bits swimming in it. Not to be too sentimental about a pee, but it was easier to pass water when I was in a desert, drinking things camels passed.