I haven’t been anywhere in months. That’s how it feels. The occasional run up to London for business. That’s it. My local airport stopped flying to some places I love, work got very stressful, I got tired, and that was that. I’m not even writing this in the morning — I overslept, right through the alarm and a cat apparently trying to hollow me out and use me as a combat bunker. I have a whole kit for travelling and working on the road and it’s just sitting there because I am tired and crushed down by the lid of winter.

So I’ve decided it’s spring. It’s not. It’s fucking cold and grey and damp. But sometimes you just have to decide to get the fuck out of bed. Accepting that you will on occasion fail and fall back on the pillow. But rising with the intent to spend more days moving across the face of the earth rather than across the carpet from bedroom to bathroom. Or thinking about a catheter. Or checking to see if stairlifts can be mounted horizontally so that you can be transported to the toilet on a monorail.

I may or may not have sketched out those plans. The child’s grandmother may or may not have caught me scoping out her stairlift the other week.