Soft sunlight falls on the white bathroom tiles and provides a restful atmosphere for a long convalescent soak in the bath. Outside it is clear and bright but the snow that fell a few days ago still lies frozen in some places. Not that I have been able to go out. Flu has confined me to the house for several days now. Easy reading (Keith Donohue’s The Stolen Child; Mark Rowlands’ The Philosopher and the Wolf), occasional web browsing, but mostly dozing has given a feeling of retreat to these hirlwm days as the new year gathers its energies.
I had hoped that the menthol bath soak would help clear my head and chest but, sitting making these notes a little later, there is no evidence of that happening. Though better, I still feel too fragile to venture out along the icy woodland paths along which I usually beat the bounds of my home territory.
So, confined to the pleasures of the hearth, I watch the flames blazing up the chimney and keep to the house for a day or two more.
