Bitchaz, I went up the Hill.
I let the birches comb my hair – god knows I don’t bother. The intention was to go to the Post Office and send off some things I’ve made to the people I’ve made them for, and then after I did that, there was a road I’ve never walked up before, so I walked up it, and at the end I realised that if I hooked right – up past the sleeping hedges and the soft, reaching red hands of the roses – it would get me right to the top of the hill. I didn’t really think. It just felt good. The Hill is domed, like standing on the top of an enormous cabbage. I took a long look down at London, while schoolkids and mums with pushchairs belted past me, entirely inoculated by familiarity against the amazing view below them. As I stood there, I found that I was back on my metaphorical horse, with my metaphorical spear in my hand, and I thought: well. Well, this feels better. Well, I feel like me, again. And I had a look at the blue sky and the birds, the stripped trees and the soft, muddy grass (which I always walk on, not the path), and I felt it all flow up into me, until my bones sang with it.
It was probably rash. It took me just under half as long again as it takes me when I am at my wellest (it’s a word NOW). But as Björk says “rescue me from the unnecessary luxury of level-head-ness”. I need a month like this: where I purely concentrate on eating the right things and exercising every day. And then I might be ok for the summer. Will I get a month like this? I doubt it, but after spending two months flat on my back, I will make every effort to defend my recuperation time from my own undermining tendency to hurl myself into the arms of my friends at the first possible opportunity (I love you all. I do).
Anyway, for the first time this year I did not feel like a tick on the hide of the world, today. And for that, it was worth it.
 Look, you might only live in one world at a time, but I can’t be expected to edit myself down for the sake of not seeming a bit odd. Embrace the odd.