Then it started going icky. I got home, bit into something and lost a chunk of tooth. A perfectly nice tooth, never given any signs of trouble, nothing. Now I'll try to see if our local health centre will take me as a dental patient, since my old dentist is really too far to get to, particularly if I'm travelling on my own.
Read mail, and found mail from katherinedeane with two chunks of bad news. First, and far more important, Ana's father's had a brainstem stroke. He's cognitively intact, thank goodness, but he can't swallow or coordinate movements at all. Candles, good thoughts, etc please. And Robert Meadowcroft (the PDS research director) got back to her turning down our grant application - the one that was going to fund The Book. Well, we're going to write it anyway, but having some resources to do it with would have been good.
Tilly, our next-door neighbour, invited us round for Chinese takeaway, which was yummy.
So, today: meh. Some of the side effects aren't going as quickly as I should have liked. That's tedious, but liveable. The biggest problem is that I have every urge to write, but no creativity at all. If this stuff turns out to be a longterm Muse sedative, I'm coming off it, because I'd rather feel wretched, sleepless and creative than calm, content, and useless.
I need to do catchups on my writing obligations for people, but... I'm so nervous that it will all come out flat, pedestrian and stale.