As May swooshes by

I remain at home, working 4 hours a day.  Resting and then doing small jobs (or a larger job broken down into smaller, manageable chunks).

Tiny, incremental improvements are a relief - getting interested in what I wear again, having that little bit more energy to do something else, brain feeling just that little bit sharper (not consistently, but hey, every little bit helps).

Winston continues to think that this is all for his benefit.  Human permanently on tap, lap or cuddles on demand, able to wander around the house and pick where he wants to sleep.  Fearghus tends to lie where he can keep an eye on me.  Molly mooches about happily, dropping in for head rubs and then off on her own little plan for the day.  Which often includes chewing on sticks.  Although we've had our first decent frosts.  The medlars have bletted and she thinks they're divine, so is happily foraging about for fallen fruit.

I have had a couple of meltdown periods, "what if this is as good as it gets" sort of stuff.  Well, we'll just have to manage.

Since when did being an intellectual become an offence?

And a perjorative?

I must be missing something here - using your brain is undesirable?  Is this an Australian peculiarity (along with the perceived worship of sport) or a wider phenomenen?