About two thirds of the way during the massive cleanathon that is Thursday, I realised I was Not Wholly Well. I hate this. I hate being under the weather. However I was, and any kind of Ascension Day service was not going to happen. I pondered the best way to get safely home and in the end went for setting off at once, instead of a cuppa with a friend. I got back for a perfect Thursday evening. I inspected the sheep, for Polly too has been Not Wholly Well, though she seems well again now, and the ponies, who are in the now-regrown winter paddock, giving the spring section of the Big Field a rest (and a chance for IT to re-group). Then I walked the dogs, put the poultry behind bars for the night, and collapsed in my chair to watch a comedy movie, and eat my favourite roast veggies.
I have an ideal of Thursday evening – a complete rest from all activity, the kind of Sabbath that the Sabbath (and its adjacent Sunday) never give me. When I arrive at this ideal, when there really is neither anything much needing done urgently, not yet anything I can do, it is a kind of bliss. Mere physical unwellness of the minor kind (lassitude, slight dizziness, malaise) does not touch my joy in these occasions. Strange that being ill actually helps certain kinds of intense pleasure.