I’ve got perfect plan to stick it to lethargy

MY home has become a nicely furnished jail and I am slowly becoming institutionalised. I don’t have decisions to make because my wife is in charge, from the first tablets I take in the morning to the last batch at night. I have never been so immobilised and I have run out of jokes about bad backs, seeing as I can’t even walk the 30 yards to the top of the street.

Kids at school get stick-on badges for meritorious conduct. Maria gives them to me for domestic achievements. So far this week I’ve had two for not getting under her feet and one for eating my tea all up like a good boy. I even got a Distinguished Conduct Medal for attempting to make a cup of tea on my own, although she had to come and find me sitting in the kitchen when I had been missing for 10 minutes.

“What are you doing there?” she said. “I’ve forgotten,” I said, but the tea bag I was holding gave her a clue.

A build up of morphine may be the cause of occasional lapses in concentration such as when I retire to my office to write this column. She checks on me regularly in case I have chosen the recliner rather than the chair at the desk and fallen asleep.

Television has to be rationed and only indulged in the evening when we watch quality drama. Well, we think it’s quality. During the day the TV is tuned to a news channel, although I am usually ensconced in my office.

Ensconced is a lovely word, suggesting a snug and secure retreat in which to work or read or, in my case, beat off lethargy with my countryside walking stick. I might as well use it for that seeing as I can’t use it for countryside walking.

“What are you banging at?” my wife will shout. “I’m giving lethargy another good beating,” I say, which seems to be a satisfactory answer.

Bedtime is an adventure. I have been sleeping on two dog beds that are positioned on my side of the double mattress, so that my head and shoulders are raised by the first and my legs curl around the second. My position resembles that of a reclining paperclip and I am covered with a dog blanket.

Well, it works for us.

The other night I discarded the second canine mattress, threw away the blanket and attempted to get under the duvet.

“What are you doing?” said my wife in alarm. “Trying to sleep,” I reassured her. It worked, too.

Are these the first steps to recovery? Or I should follow the example of Egyptian gentlemen who suffer from bad backs and book an appointment with a Cairopractor?