I have spent a happy afternoon contemplating how glad I am that this year I am spending 26th December at home, flopping around, doing nothing. Last year, I was equally glad to be at home, though I did go out for a while; I must admit, though, that I wasn't as well as I could have been, but was proving a point by making sure I got out during the day. The year before that, at 18:30 on 26th December, I was in a hospital bed, terrified of the day that was to come, but too ill to protest.
The human body is an amazing thing; two years ago, I had a "life threatening illness" (you didn't really think I'd let the year move on without making a sidelong reference to my G.P.'s tactful remark when told I had cancer, did you?) Last year, I was recovering and felt the need to show that I was fine. This year, I don't feel that I have anything to prove. Just as well, since my next check-up is only three weeks away now. Where did the last five months go?
The human body is an amazing thing; two years ago, I had a "life threatening illness" (you didn't really think I'd let the year move on without making a sidelong reference to my G.P.'s tactful remark when told I had cancer, did you?) Last year, I was recovering and felt the need to show that I was fine. This year, I don't feel that I have anything to prove. Just as well, since my next check-up is only three weeks away now. Where did the last five months go?
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