Sadly, MS hasn’t.
Perhaps it’s the stress of everything that has happened so far this year. And what a year.
Yet, life continues and I’m absorbing the same-old challenges MS insists on chucking in my path, like some super-charged Easter Bunny with a basketful of chocolate eggs: the slower than expected recovery from the flu, the mental fog, the tiredness (I now fall asleep sitting up, gah) and the usual increase in nerve pain.
Anyway, I plan to funnel this bounty of symptoms into my latest challenge – writing 4,000 – 6,000 words of my novel for my Masters. In six weeks.
Er. What novel?
Despite all the turmoil of the last two months – very ill relative, family dramas and ridiculous politics – I’ve at least attended my tutorials. I mean, I was there. But I appear to have taken nothing in. Thank goodness I have a scribe and I’m fascinated by the notes he sends me. Did we really discuss that? Did I actually make that terribly pretentious point?
I’m panicking. A novel. Ok, not a whole novel, but the makings of one. Erm. Must dig out my fingerless gloves and turn the heating down. Exist on eggs boiled in saucepans of soup. Could be the makings of a new diet?
In between all this, The Teenager is interrupting my feeble efforts. He swoops downstairs, randomly flies his fingers across a few keys on my computer and sings along to Oasis hits. I mean, really? And … Stevie Wonder’s ‘Sir Duke’.
This isn’t really helping. Neither is MS. So I will call upon the MS Muse: when the worst has already happened, how bad can it be?