The pattern of it

Bad week and I am writing it down anyway, because a journal that only contains the good weeks would be a lie and no use to anybody reading it later.

A hot Lisbon August and dehydration she caught late.

Constipation, which I have avoided writing about for six weeks out of pure squeamishness. It is the thing making me most miserable and I have said nothing about it to anybody. That seems worth noticing.

A rough few days. Not dangerous, just relentlessly unpleasant, the kind of unwell where you cannot read and cannot sleep and cannot settle to anything.

Headache for three days running. It turned out I had barely drunk anything since Tuesday. Water, then a slow improvement, then feeling faintly stupid.

Until Monday.