Fidel Castro is dead, and I managed a hot bath this morning.  In these unfamiliar times, I am falling over with increased regularity, my legs are covered in bruises – covered! – and I have a persistent crick in my neck so pronounced I can’t move my head to the right and, for a memorable twenty four hours, couldn’t really use my right arm comfortably.

Sometimes, I don’t know why I bother.  I am hoping it will be worth it.

I have ibuprofen.  The gel capsules are my favourite, in case you were wondering.  And I have Waleda Arnica Muscle Soak, which I purchased out of curiosity, and initially felt was a bit too medicinal-smelling for regular use, but since I’ve been in unfamiliar climes, has proved a welcome staple.  It is lovely for relaxing in when I am bruised or feeling fragile.  At the moment, both those things are certainties.  I am a bit panicked I will run out of it before I get home.

As well as ibuprofen and arnica, last week I went out and purchased myself a cashmere jumper with pockets in the front.  It was so expensive I can no longer afford to eat, but  wrapped up in front of the telly, or in the cinema, waiting for the drugs to kick in, it’s so cosy I just don’t care.


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