Black Bear

Tuesday 8th February

Day 293

These are treacle days - a dark stickiness, gummy as molasses, has found it’s way to the soles of my feet so that every step I take, every thought I have, is dragging. Even driving the car, taking the rubbish out, picking up the phone, deciding what to wear. I think in another life I was a black bear, so this month I would be in the shelter of a dry leaf cave, in such a deep sleep you’d hardly know I was still breathing. Definitely not heaving my way around the aisles at Sainsbury’s.

This morning I clean my father’s room. I change his sheets. I notice how much more stuff you need when you are very old. A grab handle attached to the side of the bed to help him get out. Lots of cushions wedged under the mattress, and blocks under the legs to raise it up higher than his head. To keep his ankles from swelling. To keep his heart beating while he sleeps.

My husband is on a train to London at lunchtime so I forage in the fridge and heat up a bowl of left overs - creamy mashed potato and curly cabbage - a sort of bubble and squeak with scrambled eggs on top. It’s probably the big mug of hot chocolate afterwards that makes me want to retreat to my duvet cave and hibernate till March when the daffodils are in flower.