Day one back at work.
I awoke full of a nervous energy, as tired and sleep-ridden as my brain still was, just wanting to get out of the house and on my way. The sun was shining, frost covered everything, and my feet wanted out.
7 days inside being ill was both a blessing, and a curse. A blessing because I love my house, and its comfortable clutter, the piles of books, the small but neatly packed kitchen, the occasional tumbleweeds of cat fluff dancing around in the corners until I chase them down with the hoover or the purple duster.
A curse because when I’m at home I want to cook, and I had no energy to even think about food, let alone create anything, so there was an underlying niggle that my kitchen was being somehow wasted.
I survived, the kitchen did not pine away into a pitiful shell of its former self, and I made it to work on time, trudging up from Temple station, stopping only to cast a longing look at the silver frosted ribbon that was the Thames this morning. I hate leaving the river behind.
The usual foray into Pret for some porridge was achieved, despite oddly curmudgeonly shoppers for a Friday, and then there I was, back in the office.
I felt like I’d been away for a decade. That unfamiliar familiar feeling when you come back from holiday and everything but nothing has changed, plus the slight uncertainty, started long ago at infants’ school, that you might get in trouble for playing hookey, not actually being ill.
Everyone was lovely. The result of everyone being lovely was that I felt like the tightly coiled spring of my worry had been released, and so I immediately became both exhausted, and manic.
It wore off. I managed to achieve Things. I didn’t kill annoying colleague, not even a bit. I did, however, ignore his phone calls. When you have told someone not to call you, but to email, as you have lost your voice, and they insist on calling you four times, you just have to ignore them, and get your desk mate to answer your phone.
I left on time, I came home, surviving the journey by burying myself in my Kindle, as it has dragons in it.
Two dinners – and lots of washing up – later, and I feel better. Still full of cold, and with a cough waiting in the wings like a malevolent understudy, but I did it.
Let’s see what the weekend brings.