Lately, I have been aching at the seams and falling apart at my ankles. The damp London winter has got to parts of me I didn’t know I had, and my joints ache in the morning. Subsequently, I have been floundering around on the upper deck of buses and holding on perilously by my good hand to the rail on the stairs, lest my pathetic shoulder joint gets wrenched by the sudden braking of a No 82 bus. London is cruel when you can’t move quickly, and shows no mercy to a 33 year old with the joints of an 87 year old. I have been taking cod liver oil for the last week, though, and suddenly the pains vanished. However, I have sprouted a pair of fins. Should I be alarmed? In addition, my secondary ailment is I cannot pass a regional branch of Waterstones without spending £30 on books – books I shouldn’t be reading, because I have twenty seven books at home I should be reading but am not. I am still only half way through Bleak House. It’s been nearly a month. I have discovered Jean Rhys, however, a godsend on damp rainy bus journeys, and – unlike Bleak House – small enough to carry around easily without dislocating the bad joints in your shoulder.