I've realised what I am. I am a counterfeiter.

Everything I do is a (poor) imitation of what someone else is doing. I'm not good at doing anything from scratch - I'm only good at copying things.

I can play things on the guitar - but only things that other people have composed.

I listen, I copy.

I can draw and paint things - but only if someone else has already drawn them first or the things I'm drawing are sitting there in front of my eyes.

I look, I copy.

I write a blog - but it's a mish-mash of the styles of other blogs I read.

I read, I copy.

I'm good at languages - but only because language acquisition is all about imitation.

I listen, I copy.

I am a copycat. Nothing original here.

Yes, I thought it was about time I indulged in a bit of glumness. I've been far too chirpy of late, smiling and laughing and "yes-I-feel-great"ing - who do I think I am? It's time for some good old-fashioned moaning.

Take my hair, for example. Still clinging on for dear life but it is so wispy, so lank, so utterly lifeless. I try to distract attention with hairbands, I apply product after product to try to bestow upon it some kind of body or shape, but no, it is hopeless. My one good feature, screwed.

Then there's the sale of this house. Yesterday, we received an insultingly, pathetically low offer which I, of course, have taken as a personal affront and constructed a scenario whereby we will have to sell it at a loss or we won't be able to sell it at all and will be saddled with it forever. Like the rational being I am.

And there's "work", who are taking weeks to work out what to do with me. Just exactly how long does it take to fill in a P45 and put it in an envelope? I'm not asking for anything other than to leave quietly.

I'm not allowed to run - doctor's orders. In the four years before I was taken ill, I barely missed a week. I now haven't run for over two months. I dread to think how my thighs are going to react to this.

It seems that this is the downside to my current life of leisure. Too much time alone to think, to ponder on my failings, to fret about the coming months but not actually do anything useful to prepare for them.

If I could just press the fast-forward button and find myself there, back in Hampshire, settled at last, doing something I enjoy, rather than being in this uncomfortable limbo.