A light cold over the last few days has unexpectedly knocked me sideways, sending me back to bed with books and tea. For the best part of two days I was in bed reading, sneezing etc. It reminded me that fortunately I have not had long periods of illness, no more than a day or so, and that the 'light-headedness' or vagueness that comes with blocked sinuses etc can make what has been read flow together. And I always look back on the time of illness as a short journey, the more so when reading, as if the reading keeps pace with the illness in some way. Keeps step. So I am left with confused, fused memories of Peter Levi and Bruce Chatwin's travels in Afghanistan and Frodo Baggins' journey to the Prancing Pony at Bree; as if a single journey or strands of one, a journey that began at daybreak and ended with dusk; a day's travel through a landscape of small illness.
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