I may, or may not, be dying.

The empty rolls of tissue, full bin and inability to breathe proves the first to be true.

I have begun to wonder whether the plague begins like this…or possibly something even more sinister…is there anything more sinister?

I am aware – thanks to “Autumn Watch” (which, might I add, I only watched once and only out of desperation) that the plague manifests itself in squirrels firstly through pustulant sores. These eventually take over extremities such as the ears, which in turn proceed to fall off. Now, I’m not an expert in squirrels, despite the huge amount of time I seem to have spent with them, however it appears to me that they didn’t actually seem to realise their own demise was seemingly imminent, as small squirrel bits dropped casually from them while they innocently continued to leap from tree to tree. I may, or may not, be exaggerating here. Nevertheless, this is highly distressing. My thinking is this. What if a similar fate is to befall me? If the squirrels weren’t to know, how am I to? Maybe I will sniff and sniff and sniff until one day my nose drops off! What if I don’t even notice then? I’ll keep losing bits until all that is left is a pile of used tissues and a misshapen pile of skin and bone.

What would Chris think, if he came home to that? If I keep still, perhaps I’ll stay together.

I really am quite ill. That is not an exaggeration.

I have attempted to sleep. No luck – when I lie down breathing becomes impossible and I can’t stop coughing. I have watched 2 hour long programmes and one film. I have searched for jobs. I have got up and made myself drinks and soup. It is just awful.

After watching “A Christmas Carol” last week (in an early effort to begin to get through our annual Christmas film list), Chris resurrected his old nickname for me. I am lovingly, and cruelly, referred to as ‘Tiny Tim’ around here.

It’s not like I’m ill all the time, I just seem to come down with most things when they come my way. My mother used to love to blame that on my vegetarianism, though since I turned to the dark side some time ago now, she no longer has that excuse. I do just seem to be of a sickly constitution. Much like one of those sad girls Kitty and Lydia Bennett would have made fun of in Pride and Prejudice. Lady Catherine De Bourgh’s daughter maybe. If I lived in a mansion and was in line to inherit an enormous fortune I might be a little more cheery. Instead, I’m sitting alone in my dirty, untidy two-bed flat, vainly sniffing at an olbas oil bottle wondering exactly how long this thing is going to last.

I suppose as long as I don’t go the same way as those squirrels, I should count my blessings.