Yesterday, I returned the dreadful Hystories by Elaine Showalter
to the library, what a relief to have that book out of my possession, her cavalier dismissal of neuroimmune illness is simply bizarre. I can't even be bothered to talk about it any more, I tweeted a few times
about it last week. I also discovered that local libraries stock food
recycling/compost bags, so was very happy as I have just used up the ones the
council provided a few months ago up. I was hoping to take out Claire
Messud's The Woman Upstairs, but I could not remember her name, I was furious with my stupid head - and
it does feel like a kind of stupidity, this cognitive bleakness caused
by ME - not the normal 'can't remember what I came in for', more like a database being erased from your head - spaces where facts should be: I was trying to remember her husband's name too, as a way back to her, I knew he was a critic - James Wood - and by the time I remembered, the library was closing... And
not only can I now tell the difference between a herring gull and a lesser black-backed, I've learned there is such a thing as a red admiral butterfly *and* a small tortoiseshell. I thought tortoiseshells were only a kind of cat. You live and learn.
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