Tag Archives: illness

“You can’t make footprints in the sands of time if you’re sitting on your butt. And who wants to make buttprints in the sands of time?” Bob Moawad.

I confess—I have been making some serious ‘buttprints’ all over the place during the last few weeks (in the sands of time . . . on my couch . . . in my bed . . . )  In fact, I have spent so much time sitting (or lying) on my (rather ample) behind that I can no longer even make a pretence of any kind of forward momentum.  Actually, I can’t make a pretence of movement in any direction at all reallyforwards, backwards, up or down . . .

In my defence I should point out that I am at the moment recovering (dear God, please let me be recovering) from my second (or is it my third?) bout of that really nasty flu that has been rampaging around the country this winter (apparently the flu shot I had earlier in the year was only effective for last year’s model) but even for me, who usually needs little or no excuse to do the absolute bare minimum, my current state of inertia is at a whole new level.

Normally when feeling somewhat under the weather I do what so many of us do—suck it up and soldier on.  I mean, it’s just a cold, or a cough, or the sniffles.  No big deal.  Right?  Well, not this time.  This time my body made it perfectly (and painfully) clear that we were having none of that ‘carry-on-regardless’ crap.  We were going nowhere.  Consequently (and because I really had no other option) I decided to be kind to myself.  I had some time off work.  I took the tablets, drank the medicine, wrapped myself (along with a trio of incredibly solicitious puppies) in blankets and slept.  And slept.  And slept.  I literally had no energy for anything else.  I did no reading, no writing, no sketching, no exercise.  I don’t think I even did any thinking (or at least none that I can recall . . . )

Two weeks later and I finally seem to be coming out of the other side.  I am on my feet again but apart from that there still appears to be little discernible sign of movement.   I feel like someone needs to wind me up to get me started again.  I mean, I should be doing something—anything—again by now.  Shouldn’t I?  (I should be writing, although I can’t think of a thing to say.  I should be sketching, although I can’t think of anything to draw.  I should start exercising again, although just getting the dogs across the park and back in the afternoon seems to be stretching me to my limits . . . )

You know Isaac Newton said (paraphrasing here) ‘‘An object at rest (i.e. me) will remain at rest until acted on by an outside force.”  And really—who am I to argue with Isaac Newton?  So, perhaps all I really need to do is take a few more days and wait for that inevitable intervention from an ‘outside force’ . . .

That sounds good to me.  That sounds like a plan.  And if I happen to make a couple more buttprints around the place before that happens . . . well, I guess the sands of time and I will just have to live with that . . .


Posted by on September 8, 2017 in Uncategorized


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‘I reckon being ill as one of the greatest pleasures of life, provided one is not too ill and is not obliged to work until one is better.’ Samuel Butler.

I am not at all sure what Samuel Butler was thinking when he said being ill was ‘one of the greatest pleasures of life’.  What a strange thing to say.  I have been what my father used to call ‘sick as a dog’ all week and I can see absolutely no pleasure in it whatsoever . . .

(And, before I go any further, what kind of odd expression is ‘sick as a dog’ anyway?   Why do we always blame the dog?  (dog tired . . . dog in the manger . . . dog’s breakfast . . .  go to the dogs . . . )  Although I have also lately heard the expression ‘sick as a parrot’  too.  Not sure what to make of that one either.  )

As you can probably tell, I am a mite grumpy.  I don’t like being unwell and I have felt absolutely miserable for over a week now (nothing life threatening—just some flavour of miscellaneous virus that happens to be doing the rounds . . . along with a cough . . .  and a runny nose . . . and a monster headache . . . ) and at time of writing I am showing very little sign of improvement.

(I don’t get sick very often but when I do I go all in. I know they say things usually get worse before they get better but hey—give a girl a break—please!  I am well and truly over it. Well, no.  I’m not over it, as in ‘I’m feeling better’. I’m over it, as in ‘I’m fed up’.  Perhaps I should have said that to begin with. Oh dear God I’m rambling . . . )

Anyway, I think the thing that bothers me most (apart from the actual feeling like crap part of course) is that there is very little I can actually do about it.  I can take a tablet for my headache, and another to stop my nose running, and I can keep up the fluids, and rest when I can . . . blah, blah, blah (we all know the drill) . . . . but in the end I really just have to wait it out.  My body will heal itself when it is good and ready and not before.

You know, it’s so easy to sink into the mire when you feel dreadful (nobody likes me, everybody hates me, think I’ll go and eat worms . . . ) and I find I have to constantly pull myself up and remind myself—’It is only the flu, Sal!  You will get over it.  This too shall pass . . . ‘

And perhaps, in a round about sort of way, that is what Samuel Butler was getting at.  Perhaps he meant that by being ill (but not too ill) one might be forced to remember what a pleasure it was when one felt well . . . 


Posted by on June 23, 2017 in Uncategorized


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‘ ‘Tis healthy to be sick sometimes.’ Henry David Thoreau.

Stories from my Sketchbook . . . 

This was my week.

If Henry David Thoreau were still around I would happily slap him . . .



Posted by on October 4, 2016 in Uncategorized


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