But I woke this morning with intimations of a muscle-knot migraine in the offing. Hot-packed and codeined and muscle-relaxanted it and turned to my stack of books, to discover that all of them had become imbued with the vague nausea that attends my migraine states. Peter Ackroyd (both Ackroyds in the to-read) is plain out of the question: horrors within, it says so on the dust jacket. So is Holdstock: horrors within because I've read Holdstock. Diana Wynne-Jones has a bleak internal landscape of flatness and complications and despair: my eye throbs at the thought. So I started reading Sutcliffe's Lantern Bearers-- kid's book, unreread for many years, not that I was madly fond of her Roman-based books ever but hey *Sutcliffe*, master of subtext.
Err. No. Saxon invasions and the end of all things.
Called little friends' mother, cancelled evening, took The Good Dope and slept from 3 to 9:00. The muscle knot is mostly unbound but the soul is still dark nighting. I think nothing will settle my mental stomach but a little Chinese, and I don't dare try. Shall have another bath and go back to bed. Some things you just have to be away for.
