I live on the top of a steep hill. There are three roads in or out,and none of them are passable in the ballet shoe that masquerades as my car which is currently parked in a snow drift outside. The Bin Men and Recycling gang (who I note made it up here for their Christmas tip) have also failed to rock up. The resultant Monument of Twenty First Century Shame outside on the roadside will shortly and undoubtedly get classified as the Eighth Wonder of The World. I anticipate coachloads of Japanese tourists arriving any day now, camcording the hell out of my boxes of Quality Street tins (5) cans, bottles, newspapers and milk cartons. Perhaps, if they are lucky I will go out there like Rhys Effans in the film Notting Hill and raise my arms in triumphant recognition of what we have achieved of late. After all, it wasn't all me. If it was, I wouldn't be able to move from my specially made bed for Obese People and would have to make do with posting gory images of me having my bed sore dressings changed on YouTube.
As it is, this last week of enforced captivity (yesterday doesn't count, I was in a borrowed car and had to dash back) has meant that I have spent a bonkers amount of time sitting at my lapdog. And far from feeling guilty (as I do about the recycling) I have really enjoyed it. I have downloaded some toptastic tunes, read loads, chatted with friends on the phone, on Facebook, researched various schemes and made some great plans for the future. But in the absence of the Mastermind chair I really aspire to, I have been perched on a tiny bench at the kitchen table, surrounded by books, maps, diaries and a camera. Maybe, one day, when the sores on my arse have healed, I'll post a picture.
Or maybe the Japanese tourists will snap me through the kitchen window and do if for me, before they move on to Dylan Thomas's boatshed in Laugharne.