I has writ a page! An whole page! First in three days, and if you could conceivably know how I'm feeling inside, you would be as amazed as I am. But this book shall be finished eventually, and this shall be how it happens. Grindingly.
In other news: I bought an oxtail on Friday, and on Saturday morning I set it to cook absurdly slowly with lots of chopped-up veg and half a bottle of red wine that had been open far too long (just not had time to drink it, dahling, what with being out from mid-afternoon every day, taking the play on tour). I had meant to pot-roast it like that, but then I changed my mind and added water enough to cover the meat.
And by the time I came in last night, of course, I was way past eating in any respect; and I have no appetite today. And yet, I have a large casserole-dish full of gorgeously-stewed oxtail and an awful lot of broth. So what I reckon, I shall strip the meat from the bones, and pretend the broth is beef-stock: for what else do I have? Yes, indeed. I have beetroot. I can has borscht. And borscht, as we know, is Soup; and Chazzies, as we know, love Soup. Even or especially when sick. I may not be able to taste same (can you add chilli to borscht?), but at least it's no trouble to swallow, and I'll know it is Doing Me Good.