It is the middle of the night and a disturbance, perceptible only to her, rouses Lindsay to a defensive rage.
I leap out of the bed and find her at the front window barking furiously. One by one I go around the perimeter of the house turning on the powerful outdoor lights. Although, had it been anything human, Lindsay's savage baritone would have sent him running into the next county by now.
I move from room to room but no Jason in hockey mask with butchers knife greets me around any corner. But I do make a surprising discovery.
My own internal Lindsays who have been howling a ceaseless chorus of alarm over my physical condition, have all settled down to sleep. I feel, if not well, at least normal.
Perhaps it's just the adrenaline?
I do an internal audit of my condition. No fever, no cement in my intestines, no acid in my stomach, no pain in my throat, no swamp gas in my brain. No grinding fatigue that sends me into repeated hours of sleep. Could I have just gotten better, just like that. Suddenly.
For days I have retreated into a distant internal cave, seeking some place far enough from pain to be tolerable. Linda has been making determined forays deep into the gloom to find me and with patience and cheerfulness, has been taking my hand and leading me back toward the light.
Only to find that I had retreated down some unexpected and darker side shaft into a new cluster of symptoms.
But now the pains have gone. And I have an appetite. The thought of food no longer repels me. I make myself a cup of tea and Lindsay, who has now settled down, comes to join me.
I wonder what Linda will say if she rises in the morning and comes to seek me in my gloomy cave only to find me completely out of the cave. Making scrambled eggs.
And saying, "Good Morning! Can I fix you some breakfast?"
Conventions of British TV Mysteries
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