My nest is made up of ever-rumpled sheets, pillows thrown about, damp dresses from yesterday’s laundry hung up on hangers and empty hooks, handwashed bras hooked limp and soft on cupboard handles, lining the hallway banister. A pyramid of toilet paper tissue by my bed, an empty box of raisins, a jug of water. A white bowl with drying bits of yoghurt and cornflakes. A metal spoon.
I’ve been sick since Tuesday night, soon after my return from Sydney. It’s felt longer than that. On Wednesday night, my brain felt like it was boiling inside my skull, and I managed to soak up the fever from my skin with a cold wet tea towel dipped into a full metal mixing bowl. I kept wishing for a loyal handmaiden. Or a boyfriend. Or to be seven again with both parents. Sickness brings out the worst in you. I went to work with my hair uncombed and in my unflattering puffy grey jumper. Who cares about appearances when you feel like death?
This month was meant for so much more. I haven’t blogged since the first, and I leave the country in 18 days. I went to Sydney! Every night next week is booked with plans and friends and dates and rehearsals. There is still so much to do, and I am writing about none of it.
I think about my housemate in the bedroom next door, who has to listen to me cough up my lungs, hacking and snorting and sniffling all the live long day.
Last night, I stayed home instead of going to a friend’s EP launch, guilted the whole hour I knew his band was playing. I hope no one missed me.
