Bed and Beckett day

I am going to have to read more Beckett. At present. I keep stumbling across references to his work, almost everywhere I go. I am illiterate when it comes to his work. I left school after Higher English, and Samuel B wasn't on my modern languages syllabus at university.

This is what happened today. I woke before 7, and got up and fed Bomble and even did some cooking with rhubarb. Then I went back to bed with the tea (which was cold by then) and waited for the rhubarb to cook. Once it was cooked, it had to cool, and I kept myself busy meanwhile. I had hopes of going to town, buying rice flour, making more sourdough, etc, etc. Perhaps even some fancy baking. Yesterday's trip to Cheltenham had totally invigorated me. I even started making exotic plans for the summer holidays.

And then the (sounds like ) smoker's cough that had been plaguing me since getting up started to incapacitate me, and my chest hurt, and I ended up crawling back to bed at midday, because even sitting in the sun in an armchair like an old-timer was making me tired and worn out.

I stayed there all day.
It felt like a waste, but waste of what?
If I don't have health, what am I wasting by staying in bed and listening to the radio?
As long as I keep moving, I won't get pressure sores.
I notice with amazement (now) that I managed to do a load of washing at the point before I crashed, and even hung it up.

So thank you, Samuel Beckett, for these few lines, which I found in an anthology I keep by my bed. I especially like the second stanza:

"my peace is there in the receding mist
when I may cease from treading these long shifting thresholds
and live the space of a door
that opens and shuts"

I am not there yet, I have not ceased from treading. Rather than leave a blank space in my journal, I have submitted a very rough photo of a book, taken under artificial light at close of day. But I will remember these words, and aim for the space of a door.