Post-viral fatigue: living inside a brown paper bag and not having the strength to punch your way out. New story, old plot: the latest novel in the cycle of a prolific writer. The return of the great big dog with the soft mouth, who shakes you and shakes you until you’ve had far more than enough ... or until you’ve got it – at least it’ll do for now. Eventually, when you’ve abandoned all hope, the switch trips and you’re catapulted back into the regular universe, where you don’t need to have a sit-down and a cup of coffee in order to hang the washing up.

The nub of what I’m required to learn, a little bit differently with each revolution on the merry-go-round, is surrender; giving up the illusion of control; letting go of structures, rules, systems; improvising; living on the tide of life, not always trying to push it. And this requires a sensitivity to arising, a willingness to still myself and listen ... even when everything in me cries out to go numb and start running.