Tonight, I am full of whinge and self pity. Despite spending today sitting very quietly on the sofa in an attempt to will the rib(s) into mending, it still hurts to move/breathe/laugh. I was not a good invalid. I did not think sweetly pretty thoughts like the heroine of a Victorian novel. I moaned and bitched and sulked. There wasn’t a book in the house I wanted to read, nothing I wanted to knit, or watch, or listen to. I faffed around with paperwork, and glared out of the window at Outside, and sulked and grumped and stropped. Cabin fever in its purest and nastiest form.
And now it’s dark, and rainy, and I haven’t left the house all day, and it still hurts, and Spring feels a very long way off.
So. Yes. Angry… at the world.