Days nineteen, twenty and twenty-one all seem to meld into one.  I am unbelievably tired, somehow managing to arrive at 7AM every day with buses moving as quickly as they need to be.  My wife comes with me and then goes on to other things, mainly looking after her grandson, Elijah who is two years old and has chicken pox.

Me, I just sit there.  I look at my kindle for a bit then put it down.  Mostly I just sit there, half-asleep with a fatigue that buries me under tons of sand.  I can function on autopilot and mostly I do.

As well as the tiredness is the irritation in my arse, occasional unspecified discomfort in bladder or bowels or whatever else exists in that part of my body.  (I'm not a doctor and don't know what it is, all I know is, sometimes it hurts).

I'm home by 11:30, even on Monday (day 19) when I stopped off at Waterstones to spend a book token.  (Yellow Blue Tibia by Adam Roberts and Jutta Ditfurth's German language biography of Ulrike Meinhoff).  Once I'm home I sit in front of the computer failing to be creative.  I wallow in depression, mostly at the thought of having to go back to work once I feel better, and often, I sleep.  Today I slept about four hours.  I only hope that doesn't keep me awake this evening. Somehow I doubt that it will.

Sweet dreams everybody.