I've had some pretty crap ME days this last few weeks, I don't really mention them cos it's all so very dull. But recently I was in bed reading Le Scaphandre et Le Papillon with my French dictionary - a huge brick of a book - and I felt like I was Helen Fleet. It was chilling to rewind to to the eighties, in bed trying to keep my French up. Then I felt huge relief that it is now and not then and that I have achieved what I have - my degrees, my voluntary work, my novel - and being a fine auntie to my nephews - in spite of it all. And I thought of those who deal with severe, unremitting ME, year after year after year, and once again I praise them to the skies, wondering how they cope. (I know how they cope, they cope because they have to.) Yesterday, as I was going about my day I felt like a wind-up doll, slowly running down, with not a chance in hell of being wound up again. And more muscle pain than I care to think about. So today is complete rest. And yet I feel lucky.