After a boiling hot weekend (we don’t get many of those in the UK, so I’m not complaining) and a Monday spent in the British Museum, on trains, DLR and in Charlton House, none of the above with any air conditioning, I overheated my body. And I guess my brain, too. Why doesn’t the British Museum have AC I don’t know but the moment I walked in there I was already irritated and felt sick. Even though it was boiling, I didn’t sweat even one drop. Of course, I didn’t realise what was happening until Tuesday morning. At first, I couldn’t move, and I merely thought I was coming down with the flu (every time Little M. finishes school either for a half-term or any other break I seem to be getting sick), but my symptoms were getting more unusual with every passing minute. When I knew it wasn’t the flu, I consulted with my “best friend” Google to clarify my suspicions and yes; I turned out to have had a mild case of the overheated body, for which all my symptoms checked with the google search. Little M. was the bravest boy on earth looking after me and making sure I was drinking enough water.

I was in bed the whole of Tuesday, and the only thing I could think of was writing and stories. I had all those stories planned in my head, and there were good stories. But of course, I couldn’t write anything in my delusional state of mind. I can’t remember any of them (or maybe I was hallucinating) now, but at least I can write a little bit again today. A writer’s life, right?