Late at night, in bed, in the dark, I am having trouble sleeping. I actually went into town earlier, and came home so tired I can’t catch my breath, and my head is aching. I had a ‘flu jab on Friday, which probably is not helping.
H lies beside me, stroking my shoulder. ‘Did you drink enough water today?’ He asks.
‘You need to look after yourself.’
‘I know,’ I mutter. And I start weeping. Silently at first, but soon I am shuddering with sobs and the tears are running into my ears.
‘Sweetheart,’ says H, ‘Oh, sweetheart…’
‘I used to enjoy looking after myself, though,’ I choke out, as H hands me tissues, ‘When it wasn’t just me I was looking after. All that eating well and drinking plenty… I even used to go to the organic place and get the beetroot hummus and falafels because it was the healthiest gluten-free option left, and I’d sit in the park and I’d enjoy it, because it was healthy and I was looking after 6AA.’ I start crying again. ‘I fucking hate beetroot.’