I had three days off on the sick, in various stages of wound. The guts of a day spent pacing a nice cold dishcloth pressed to my stabbing eye hole. NO IMPUT. just radio four. I swallowed the schedule raw. Some stuff is repeated, I noticed not. Pacing not pain, but discomfort.
We live on a row of old Mill workers houses down beside the incline that runs into the river Don. It’s nice, secluded, a quiet spot over the railway track.
Sometimes on a walk down by the river I spot deer, on my sick time one ventured into our back garden.
I should have been more ALERT, but whatthefux.
FUCKING BOING BAMBI!