off sick

This morning, following a disturbed night's sleep, when each time I changed position I would awaken with a spasm of pain, I find myself with my back completely locked. I'm OK if I remain completely still, but any movement is extremely uncomfortable. As I know of few jobs which require no physical movement at all, I ring work, full of apology for the disruption it will inevitably cause, but resolute in my intention not to come in. As I write, swilling with paracetamol and codeine, it has failed to improve a jot and I shall probably ring again later to tell them I shan't be in for the rest of the week.

However, I have at least had the opportunity to rework my latest short story which received a bad review from my professional editor friend/patient. Funny thing: the original text stuck closer to the reality of the incident to which it relates, but it would seem that in "creative writing", sometimes fiction is more acceptable than truth. If I were James Joyce I'd have told my critics (including my wife, who took a similar view) to go fuck themselves, but I'm not. It is estimated that over the course of his life, Joyce spent over 30,000 hours writing, me a couple of thousand at best. That'll teach me to have spent half my life gaping at the idiot box...