Happy Easter to everyone - now, come and hide these rubber rings for me, would you?

Well, Easter is now practically over.  There was chocolate, there was food.  There was also rain, lightening, damp washing, wet dogs and housework.

And now it's Easter Monday, when it is, apparently The Law that thou shalt go to the nearest town and shop as if thy life depended upon it.  But, since the nearest actual shop shops (ie not shops that sell purely practical items and/or expensive cards) are a very long way away, the roads are solid with caravans (this is honestly true. I could probably walk to York through them all end-to-end along the A64.  It would keep me dry, but 30 miles of uncut moquette and chemical toilets might strain my constitution) and I've got better things to do with my time than shop (my toenails, for instance, need clipping), I shall break the law with equanimity.  Anyway, I'm in here with the chocolate, and there is nothing else I need, unless Tony fancies popping round for a cuppa.

I have his mug all ready...

 So, I think I am going to spend a pleasant day attempting to double my bodyweight, catching up on some writing, and generally chilling.  Literally, chilling, because the heating went off an hour ago.  But I have this to keep me warm..

because, obviously, if I'm sitting down I must be desperate to play at pulling a set of rubber rings from the mouth of a terrier.

Sigh. I thought, once I no longer had toddlers, those days of being forced to play a physically demanding game every time my bottom touched sofa were over....

'Coming soon' (I hope), from me...

"So, Jane," I can hear you yelling from outside, because clearly that restraining order hasn't become operative yet, "what are you writing at the moment?"

Well, if I was feeling smartarse, which I'm not because I've still got a nasty cough, I would answer "my blog, obviously, dur..." and then phone the police again, but because I am the least smartarse person you could ever wish to meet (that is literally true, my trousers are covered with mud, the zip is broken and there's one of those tiny splits in the front seam that you think you can ignore until you realise that when you walk the split gapes and everyone can see your pants), I shall tell you what I am writing...

Firstly...

In case that's not clear enough, here's another clue...

No, it's not a book about gardening... It's a book about a haunting. Currently titled Up The Stair, after the little ditty..

As I was going up the stair
I met a man who wasn't there.
He wasn't there again today,
Oh how I wish he'd go away....

And, let me tell you, there's nothing harder (well, there is, but this is particularly grieving me at present), than trying to write about dark, closed rooms and the lights going out unexpectedly, when the sun is shining. Although my lights often go out unexpectedly, because if you turn the outside light on when it's raining it fuses the whole house.

And the other thing I'm writing?  Is a Christmas novella, labouring under the title 'The Boys of Christmas'. And that's all I'm saying about that one.

Up the Stair has a haunted sleeping bag in it. And a main character who suffers from Glosso-Compulsive disorder (a bit like Tourettes). That ghost is not going to know what has hit it....

Still here, still poorly...

Still ill. Still no better at being it.  You'd think, wouldn't you, that after all the practice I've had I'd be good at being ill by now, but I'm not.

Anyway.  I've now perfected the 'hacking cough' element, the 'walking really slowly' is coming along nicely. 'Fuzzy head' is something I've always been good at, so no problem there... I've got qualifications in 'being off my food', 'waking up sweating' and 'random headaches' too.

So, when the Poorly Olympics comes around, as surely they will, I am an absolute shoo-in for all the events that involve creeping around holding one's head and going 'oooh'.  These are not to be confused with the Hangover Olympics of course, where the events are similar but of shorter duration.

But first I am going to try to qualify by entering the 'Fancying a small piece of Toast' games.  They're being held in Helskinki this year...

Is this what it's like to be 100?

I should just like to state here - I am not old. I am edging towards oldER, but I do not consider myself to be even brushing the fringes of old.

So why do things that I used to be able to shrug off with a rueful grin, now make me want to take to my bed for a week, with a lifetime's supply of tea and paracetamol?  I mean, I've got a cold today. Okay, it's a nasty cold, big beefy cough, achy bones, inability to do anything much bar sit on the sofa and watch Tony Robinson...ahem, I mean, cough wanly and hold a hand to my forehead...but, a few years ago I would have popped a couple of pills, shrugged and carried on.  Now I feel as though someone has nailed my feet to the floor.

My teeth hurt, my hair hurts, and I have the feeling that, once I've taken the last paracetamol, I might cry. That or rummage through the kitchen cupboard like a junkie or start taking the dogs' pills. I have turned the corner from managing nicely to being pathetic without even being aware of it!

My mother (who is 85, and therefore official Old, in anyone's language, she's allowed), had trouble with her knees. Knees are not something that run in our family, so I have no problem with my joints, generally speaking - but today? Today my knees are the least of my worries, when my back hurts and my elbows hurt. I should ring her up and sympathise with her knees. And ask her advice on how to pick things up off the floor without bending down (it hurts, and it makes my nose run).

And you know what's worse? I CAN'T EVEN FACE A HOBNOB!

That's it, I'm going back to bed. If anyone wants to come round and rub Vick on any part of me they can reach..feel free. Put the kettle on while you're here too... but don't bother with the biscuits...

We're gonna need a bigger jar...