With everything unpalatable, I froze. Ostrich. Attempted to blend in. Chameleon.

And while I understand the wacky madness of ostriches and the complex threat chameleons are under from forced domestication and threadworms, after Magpie, emulating them was the best I could muster, and yes, it was somewhat considered, and yes, many times it was neglect, and yes, I may be judged harshly for my non-disclosure of my bodily activity, and yes, at other times it was downright cruel, hiding my terminal status from Alex, but mostly it just was what it was.

Dwelling in my body had become complicated, and negotiating language for its actions and more specifically the actions of my wayward cells was far from simple, even if now I know that everything has a point of simplification.

And it was utterly bewildering.

Abjectly terrified of the complications of social relationships, it suited me to go underground after Magpie, turn in on myself. This protected me from known drama-hacks, addicts, fuck-wits, mentalists, religious, super non-religious, egoists and lack-of-ego-sap-the-ego-outta-ya-ists that cling on around the sick.

Christmas came and went. Seasons here are reliable, the way they move along, constantly motored, and while people noticed how thin I was and commented on it, they also believed me when I said it was taking some time to shake a flu virus thing.

Spring arrived, shy and reserved, with a little frost spite. Daffodils popped, snow fell, winds came, lambs dropped, crocuses hung delicately above soil, wind howled, sun shone on cobwebs, and the few old ewes that survived the long harsh winter were applauded.

I stayed at home and worked from our bed. But really I was under my duvet, Googling, in case I suddenly dropped dead and needed a soft landing spot.

I desperately wanted to pick up a book as I ran my hand along their spines over and over. But I baulked.

Maybe you might help with the sheep herding and shir it’ll take that pasty look off your face – is that infection back again? Aren’t you a lot weaker than your mother? And all those antibiotics she’s giving you. I keep telling her you’re fine, and you have to fight it yourself. You can’t keep falling in under sickness like this. Jesus Christ above in heaven, I don’t know where we got you from. Well, you’re certainly not following after my side. Fine strong people on my side, not pale city people. Weak they are, the city people, it’s the smog, or the lack of work. Both probably. If you rubbed a bit of rouge onto your sour-dough puss, you know, I declare to Christ but you might look, indeed you definitely would look, a lot better. Men don’t like to look at a pasty pale face, and you do want one at some stage I presume, because you’d hardly brave it all alone, you wouldn’t last an hour. If the toaster broke, or you had to fix a plug, what good would that Moira Binchy be then? No fucking good a’tall. You should try to fight it, for fuck’s sake, you should fight this better, with your fists or anything at all you have, you should claw your nails at it, pity you’re still gnawing them off, the nails, but you need to fight it, you’ve no fight, with your puss all pasty, a cowardly girl. Did I really rear a coward? What age are you now? Hmmmm? Age? Twelve? Nearly twelve. You’re nearly twelve? Twelve is a woman.