Day 48

5.04: That wasn’t what you’d call a good night’s sleep. I went off to bed on cloud nine, after Stoke’s magnificent humbling of Manchester City, which saw them marauding into the FA Cup quarter finals.

But then I spent the next three hours dancing the muscle cramp Charleston with my heel spliced to my buttock and my ear pinned to my shoulder, as if Long John Silver was cradling a telephone while his hands were full. I’m really starting to hate my body.

I don’t mean that in the celebrity magazine sense of my knees look sarcastic, or my ears are too curly – it’s small, scrawny and funny-looking, but I’ve had it for three decades, and I can’t really bring myself to hate my body that way. What I’m starting to hate is that it gets in the way of things. More and more, under the influence of some pretty severe prescription medication, it just charges off on its own crazy tango: contorting limbs, crazy colours behind the eyes, brain growing legs, that kind of caper. And it really hurts.

How do you know if you’re a hypochondriac? It’s probably about the time you start imaging in your brain’s growing legs.

This is the thing I think about a lot (hypochondria not the brain-legs contingency) when things hurt. Especially late at night when my thighs are playing truant from the schoolroom of my hips. Maybe, to quote the galactically-irritating Michael Stipe, everybody hurts. But I don’t want to live in a world where Michael Stipe’s right.

What I need is the magic skull-jar thing that made Fred Savage and Judge Reinhold swap bodies in Vice Versa. Then I’d know whether I’m a nesh whinnying crybaby or not. I could swap bodies with Stipe: that’d learn him.

And until they bring it to me in a brown paper parcel, I’m just going to carry on whining. Just like Stipe.

6.48: Not really easy to concentrate after that pathetic an amount of sleep. Luckily, the new chapter’s full of action, so the little men who don’t exist except in my head, have been keeping me distracted with their botched executions and conscientious objections. Needless to say the word-count weighed in at a pretty flimsy poundage, and god knows what I’m going to do to stay upright for the rest of the day, without the excitement of bloodshed and swinging rifle butts.

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~ by David Thorley on February 25, 2010.

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