Friday and wake slowly and sort out my cyber stuff until my partner bought me my morning hot water. I take my vitals, all good and then get up. Before I get up I write a to do list, first one for a while. A brief breakfast follows and I get stuck into my tasks. I do the Tesco order and move onto filing in the publishing questionnaires that the Americans have sent me. It takes me ages and before I know it I have reached lunch time but the forms are done. I have a light lunch and then get back to my chores list.

For a short time I up date my heart pressure excel spreadsheet and then get my washing in. There have been messages during this time and some organising to do but I focus on getting a copy of my book to my son in Sweden. So I fish out a suitable envelope and dash to the post office and send it on its way. By the time I get home I am about out of spoons and return to my poetry editing. I end up completing my cataloguing all my poems and then list the ones I have used in the first two collections and start to list the ones I want to use in two future collections.

Its evening and I am totally out of energy, so I eat tea and slip into a night of TV and finally drafting the blog. My last acts are to take my night meds and set the dishwasher going. I am concerned that it takes me so little effort to feel so tired. I do not know if I have fallen into sloth through fear or lost confidence that I can drag myself out of my present state. The result is that I feel guilty that am not trying hard enough to pull this round, that I am not really fighting as hard as I can. I think I am trying to look after myself and trying to recover but am I? The old argument for therapy is that when you are inside a jam jar you need some one to read the label, it feels like I need someone to read my label right now, but I have to get to them.