I am pooping cheesy wotsits. It’s true bright orange floating wotsits. I was rather hoping they were lurid cancer cells I was attempting to flush away but no. After spending two days on the toilet the impression any passing voyeur would have would be that I have been enjoying a secret cheesy wotsit binge climaxing with a celebratory unload of wotsits down the pan. I have never had such lurid poo it looks positively radio active. I am pretty poorly. The conclusion seems to be that I have caught a stomach bug that combined with the ludicrous cocktail of poison has led my system to pack its bags and leave for Alabama where the good Christian folk live. I have psychedelic guts!

I am now fully on my back in bed with my lovely ginger cat, moaning, both of us, him with pleasure me with moan. He will occasionally extend a paw to my cheek to comfort me but gets annoyed at the 20 minute trots. He enjoys a paw massage which I have never experienced with a cat before. You rub each pad and claw and extract any mud or surplus fur, he closes his eyes and basks. I can’t face doing much, all my teaching is cancelled, postponed or dead in the water. The drugs are doing great things I gather so I am not at all sad, just ill – big time.

I can’t even face the news. It just feels like Netflix political horror box set. What nasty nasty people the powerful are. I cheesy wotsit on the lot of them..I have been reading the guardian online every morning for the last two years and I think I have had enough of hearing my own smug voice reflected back by the even smugger voices of Guardian Journalists and even worst smuglicious readers. In fact I think my enthusiasm for trying to engage in political debate is at an end. I have gained nothing, I can see no way of shaping the world in the way I would like, and I think I would find more valuable insights in a novel or a poem or a rom com than the news. So it’s official I give up. I leave it to those who can be bothered with the ignorant mind numbing nonsense of Trump and May and the other phonies to pursue change. I retire to my family, my cats, my poems, my stories my voices and my telephone box. I shall surround myself with the dreamy, if selfish reassurance that the world that matters starts and ends with me and those I love. Tough luck world! I am dead to you and it feels really good.

Btw. On close examination the cheesy wotsits were clementine segments direct from mount to pan. How dull.