My legs ache.  So does my head.  And my throat. It's all my fault.  Just the other day I was thinking how well things were going.  The book is unstuck, I'm getting on top of my work, and best of all, I HAVEN'T BEEN ILL IN SOMETHING LIKE TWO YEARS.

How amazing.

Oh hell.  Did I say that out loud?  Did I?

I'd barely formed the thought when I started to feel...wan. Not that I'm superstitious. And to be fair, I did notice at the party last week that a great number of the people who came up to me with enthusiastic kisses and handshakes and hugs were saying "I almost didn't make it, I've been SO ill."

Fab.

I don't mind being ill, generally.  It gives me an excuse to stay in bed, which is my favourite place in the world. I've got a stack of books I'm really excited about reading, starting with Ride With Your Mind (a new approach to dressage which I'm sure you'll all be fighting to borrow when I'm done).

The only fly in the ointment is that my husband is off to Nepal tomorrow and the animals will be staring at me intently twice a day to take them on adventures no matter how ugh I feel (yes, darling, that's a wonderful rat you killed on the Heath, I'm so proud).

And of course one parent is harder than two when it comes to getting up at 6:30am to make breakfast and pleasant conversation, especially considering that this parent is never me.

My eye has started to twitch in a virus-y way.

And yet. Despite it all, I'm actually quite cheery.

The new book has gone off to my editor. And though it isn't 100%, it's definitely a book and not the heap of garbled despair it was last month.

It's called Picture Me Gone. And here's a song of the same name.