Friday 31st December
Last night of the year. Six blog days lost. Our bed has been my restless refuge all day. I curl under the duvet in a fug of coughing and temperature. I couldn’t bear you to touch my scalp - it feels raw naked.
Nearly midnight.This year we are not staying up to count in the chimes of Big Ben. A splintering of our always tradition. Not the first change these last few days. Each time my husband searches hopelessly for a word he used to know something tightens in my belly. And fades away. Like my appetite for a New Year.