I'm losing track of what day it is. I keep being a day out. Last night I was fairly sure it was going to be Friday when I got up again. Alas, no.
I do know it's a week until Christmas! And that this is my penultimate day at work before Christmas. And that the weekend (beginning with Friday) will be filled with fun things.
This cold's still dragging on. I think it's contributing to the feeling of timelessness. I slept through the night last night which was a lovely thing. For someone's who's recovering from post-viral fatigue and also has a cold, I think I'm doing pretty well. There were almost tears between work and an evening do yesterday, because I felt so tired and didn't want to go out again, but when I did, I enjoyed myself. And I got home at a reasonable hour and went straight to bed with hot lemon and honey.
These diary posts aren't exactly thrilling, are they? I wish I had more exciting/profound/amusing things to say, but I just don't at the moment. I'm not reading any books, not doing much other than sleeping, eating, working, knitting, seeing friends.
Talking of books, can anyone lend me Little Dorrit over Christmas? I loved the BBC version and would like to read it. Or try. I'm hoping Dickens is escapist enough (and unlike Ian McEwan enough) for it not to cause me to panic.