Been dozing in front of News 24, which is repetitive and therefore soporific. I am tired out, probably because I've been so ill, not because of lack of sleep. I tell myself I ought to be doing something, but then I remember I'm recuperating, so I've stopped chastising myself. Daisy had some of my parma ham, but still isn't eating cat food - however, she seems quite happy. I've just put some tuna down and she's eating that, so I think she's OK.
I've said before how physical depression is - this episode has left me wiped out. I can't summon up the energy to do anything, so I'm doing nothing.
The surgery has muddled up my drugs and so I'll have to make do over the weekend and order more next week. I imagine it's because the CRHT hasn't yet sent them a letter, so I've sent them an email with the correct amounts in it. I expect HT will send the surgery a discharge letter as well on Monday.
Erle might pop in, so I won't have a shower yet - or shall I?
I spent 16 years in the RAF defending the Free World , then got bunged out unceremoniously for being bipolar. I and was subsequently diagnosed with PTSD. Funny old world, isn't it?