I’m behind with my reviews: indeed, I haven’t opened a book for a month. I’ve flunked three consecutive flash fiction challenges and missed two meetings with my critique group. I’ve dropped out of a book stall and a choral workshop, and my Jane Eyre walk – scheduled for tomorrow – is cancelled. Still, it’s a joy to walk to the end of my garden as strawberries begin to ripen. And to sleep in my own bed.
Of course, it’s all material but, right now, mine’s a tangle of tatty threads. But I didn’t want to be one of those bloggers who suddenly disappears from social media, leaving virtual friends to wonder if they’ve found a more rewarding creative outlet or they’re dead.
When the light flashes on my dashboard, I consult man in greasy overalls, who tuts and tinkers and charges me for my ignorance, but my car is safe to drive.
Beneath my skin my body is as much a mystery as that engine, but I can sense when some organ misfires. The scientific version of a fortune teller reading tea leaves, men and women in laundered scrubs can diagnose the problem through my blood. That’s if they are willing to wield a syringe and test tubes. The chap I saw refused to act until I’d reached the danger zone.