Purgatorio

Waking in the morning drenched in sweat and as enervated as a Johnny Keats in Rome reaching for his last kleenex. How thoughtful of the freaking Gods to ensure that while skewered by various undiagnosed gyps, and at the end of my spiritual, physical and mental tether, I have to spend seven or eight hours a day researching and writing about chronic, agonising medical conditions.

A brief escape like the liquid song of a nightingale in a forest, a dryad among the trees, came when I was able to write about gardening with arthritis, and implements with long handles. But this passed. Outside the shades of Dante and Virgil wandered down the Twitten discussing my punishment, but I do not know the sin I am paying for.

Unmanacled, I can only slump and watch Frasier DVDs. Those Crane boys stand between me and the abyss. Spoke to Mum and Lorraine and Bob. Lorraine had her head magnetically resonated at hospital this morning, but seemed cheerful.

Below Dante and Virgil sightseeing in Purgatorio.


Comments

Kate said…
Peter Kenny AKA Little Ray of Sunshine... would recommend reading a new book (by someone I know) called 'Skelton Yawngrave in the Second Kind of Darkness''. It is funny, charming and indeed magnificent. And if that doesn't cheer you up then quite frankly, we're all doomed. xx

PS: Sorry to hear about ailments. Gout? I thought you were supposed to drink a couple of pints of Port every night to get that...