Day 9

You know that phrase things that go bump in the night? In post-holiday Sifnos, things that go bump in the night are mostly donkeys. One donkey in particular: my new neighbour. He moved into the field adjacent to my house a few days ago, presumably to help clear the dry grasses in preparation for sowing. Or maybe, it occurs to me now, this is where he actually lives during the year, and he’s just back from his summer holidays, on another part of the island. Either scenario is just as plausible. In any case, the donkey spends his days happily chewing on grass, taking his exercise (see video, below) and staring contemplatively into the distance. But it’s what he gets up to at night that’s interesting. You’d think he’d just go to sleep, but no: his preferred nocturnal activity seems to be bumping into things. Large, heavy things, judging by the thuds that reverberate through my walls as I lie, sleepless and sneezing, in my bed. Perhaps he suffers from insomnia, as I have for the last few nights. But mine is caused by my horrible, lingering cold, which has me twisting and turning and blowing my nose every thirty seconds; I can’t think of what might be keeping a donkey up at night.

Donkey psychology aside, and following up on the unexpected challenges of living alone on a small island and a comment Eileen made on facebook the other day, I can now confirm that, yes, being ill is definitely one of them. I’ve always maintained that part of the reason people get married is to have someone fetch things for them when they’re ill, and I could really do with a husband right now. Having to go out and get your own cough syrup and the ingredients for a cure-all chicken soup is hard enough in London, where there’s bound to be a shop just round the corner, and a chemist not too far away. Not so in Sifnos. Here, getting to the chemist involves a rather substantial downhill trek, and an uphill return journey that the best of us struggle with at the best of times. And given my current affliction, and that I’m still a bit shaky on my left leg as a result of a fall in early August (you can read about it here, if you’re curious), I think it’s safe to say I’m not the best of anything right now. But trek I must.

I won’t be having chicken soup, however. I can’t afford chicken soup. My budget for today is allocated to cough medicine, painkillers and fly spray and might just stretch, if I’m lucky, to a packet of Cup-a-Soup, if such a thing can be found in town. I’m also acutely aware that I’ll still have to pay the carpenter for the new door handle and the broken window. I’ve toyed with the idea of offering him a massage in exchange for his work (the man needs it, with those heavy tools he lugs about all day) but I fear he night take it the wrong way; even the mention of “tools” sounds a little bit dodgy in this context.

On the topic of massage: Polyna is coming over to receive one on Thursday, and to give me another session of BowTech. Eleni spoke to her this morning, and she has pronounced my continued illness (a.k.a. alternative health) a good thing: it’s the toxins leaving my body as a result of my treatment last week. Which I don’t doubt; the symptoms started the day after my first session, and that’s no coincidence. Bars or no bars, I’ve been holding on to a lot of shit that I didn’t quite know what to do with, and all treatments of this sort have the potential of shifting things, often leading to some acute after-effects. I’ve seen it happen with massage, and it is a good thing. As well as necessary. I just wish my body would hurry up and get it over with already, because the endless coughing and spluttering and sneezing is driving me insane. And costing me a lot in toilet tissue; I went through an entire roll last night, and it ain’t cheap. Also, my nose is sore.

I have been challenged enough for a day or two, please. I am ready for this wonderful, detoxifying illness to be over; I am ready for health of the conventional kind. I am ready for a good night’s sleep, free of snot and donkey noises, and for getting up in the morning with a clear head. I am ready for the front door to be my friend again; I still glare at it suspiciously every time I pass it, and it gives me palpitations whenever I hear it shut, even though I’m holding the key in my hand. I am ready to pick herbs without fear. I am a little traumatised.  But it’s lucky, at least, that I decided yesterday that these posts count as writing because, with all the above factors at play, they’re all the writing I’ve managed in the last three days.

I’m going to close this entry early. Eleni is hosting her final dinner party tonight; she’s leaving next week – and then the hardcore solitude will begin. So I must attempt to make myself relatively presentable (i.e. not quite on death’s door, but merely on the bus on the way there), and go over to give her a hand. Though my assistance may have to be in the form of moral support: I seriously cannot be trusted not to sneeze in the food.