so, after four and a half years of not being very ill, it turns out that this weekend was to be the weekend i stopped being not ill.
yes that sentence took some thinking, but it's okay because i'm on the mend, though frustratingly far away from the places i need to be. i'm at my parents', to be exact, and being monitored with the intensity of an alien crash site (most of this post, you understand, will be a quite massive exaggeration). it is odd how, despite how i know that all this is for my own good, i still feel the same angsty teenage repression that the nineteen year old who left this house did some nine years ago, but i'm grateful for the quality of care, and the fact that i was collected from my deathbed (for i am male, and there is no such thing as a sickbed for us) on Saturday, not really knowing quite where i was, having regretfully cancelled my Cheltenham show for that evening and fiercely radiating heat like some human furnace.
but, just as i identify myself as dying when i'm clearly not, so too will i identify myself as better, prematurely. and, given that in my haste to leave the flat i forgot to pack a single change of clothes - and what i left the house in barely constitutes a set of clothes anyway - let alone any kind of bank card, i'm now at the mercy of my beloved parents as to when i'm allowed back into the real world. i'm adamant that it's now; they're adamant that it's really not.
and so, a stand-off ensues, and i'm placated with provisions of a razor and some shaving gel to get rid of four days of facial hair growth. i retire to this computer - my mum's, no less - with the backdrop of time tick, tick, ticking away.
i'm twenty-eight, dear reader, and i'm grounded