Unpleasant, not dangerous

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.

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.

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.

Bonne nuit.