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The Sea, The Sea

Book Reviews, ,
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I ate your father:

Swallowed him, spat him out dead.

Sorry about that.

These words from Norfolk poet Jess Streeting form the epigraph to this collection of writing and photography inspired by the Norfolk & Suffolk coast. As readers of Streeting’s remarkable book will know, these aren’t empty words; Streeting’s father died at sea when she was a child, in an accident that almost claimed her life as well. If this book is a testament to anything, it’s the profound effect that the sea has on an island people.

What started out as a collaboration between one poet and one photographer soon mushroomed into something else entirely, as more and more contributors got involved; in its own way, further evidence that the sea has a existential pull on all of us. A thing of great beauty, it’s also a thing to be feared. It nurtures us, feeds us, inspires us, threatens us and is more than capable of ending us. This complex, enduring relationship is explored in every aspect in this remarkable collection.

It’s a wide cast of contributors, over thirty. Journalists, clerics, academics, even a former Poet Laureate, all sit cheek-by-jowl, their thoughts and musings presented alongside striking photographs by Stephen Hyatt-Cross. Poetry forms the bulk of the content, but there are smatterings of prose too*. The meditative sits alongside the humourous, the profound alongside the historic. There will be something here for everyone and as such, this delightful collection would make a fine addition to anyone’s bookshelf but for those of us blessed to live in East Anglia, there’s a special joy to be found in seeing our own memories and feelings echoed in these pages.

The book is divided into loose sections; Sea, Shore, People and Creatures, Time and Tide and more. This helps give a feel to each section but it’s a book perfect, like the sea itself, for dipping into. Heartily recommended, then; the quality on offer more than good enough to, as Ian Enters might put it, “cast a lasting message in wet sand.”

The Sea, The Sea: A Portrait of the Norfolk and Suffolk Coast is published by Waterland Books.

Purchase from the Publisher

* including, I should add for transparency’s sake, the opening chapter of my own debut Playtime’s Over, but feel free to gloss over that bit.

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Tomorrow Was Beautiful Once by Amy Orrell

Book Reviews,
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It’s 2150 and the unexpected side-effects of time travel have accelerated climate change and torn apart a Europe already impacted by environmental breakdown, the rise of the Far Right and war. Desperate times call for desperate measures and so a plan is hatched to send Jack Elliot back in time to the point where time travel was first invented, and prevent it happening. Jack’s a chronological oddity, though, a child of parents from different time periods, so to prevent time travel will be to prevent his own existence…

Time travel novels have a particular challenge all of their own when it comes to crafting your narrative. Internal logic has extra levels and when you go beyond that and create a character like Jack who, because of his time-travel-related heritage, can remember different timestreams, you’re just piling complexity upon complexity.

Fortunately, Orrell proves herself more than capable of juggling these multiple possibilities, weaving a plot that capitalises on her concept admirably, without losing her audience. As Jack’s enemies attempt to thwart him, altering timelines as they do so, one can feel the torment that Jack’s brain is put through, but the story remains clear and focused.

Orrell’s worldbuilding, likewise, is well constructed. Her future Britain, devastated by the consequences of Far Right politics that demonise immigrants yet refuse point blank to address one of the key causes of migration, the climate crisis, is sadly all-too-believable. Yet this isn’t a sermon, the reader never feels preached at. At all times, this backstory is used to fuel the plot and, if a few readers start thinking about things they’d never considered before, well, that’s a bonus. The future tech is nicely considered as well; used sparingly, so this never becomes a tech-bound thriller, and just futuristic enough to convince without feeling too… narratively convenient.

Jack’s character is sympathetic, and even more so is Maddie, the woman in 2070 who witnesses his arrival and helps him, firstly because she thinks he can help her track her sister and, ultimately, because she falls in love with him. Together, the two of them are protagonists that one naturally roots for and come the conclusion, where tough choices have to be made, Orrell should be saluted for making her own and delivering the ending the story deserves.

All in all, this is a thoroughly satisfying read, well written and equally well crafted; all the pieces adding up to create a novel that has plenty to offer, from a writer who has plenty to offer too.

Amy Orrell is a multi-genre author and artist who loves creating character-driven stories, based in East Anglia. Tomorrow Was Beautiful Once is her debut novel, and is published by Elsewhen Press.

Support Independent book shops and my own writing by purchasing at uk.bookshop.org
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Hop Fight: The Authoritative Guide to the Drunken Sport Even a Child Can Play by F.T. Marquardt

Book Reviews, ,
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This is exactly the sort of endeavour I can get behind. To pour a book’s worth of effort into the history, rules, gameplay and every other aspect of an entirely made-up sport… there’s no more worthwhile use of a man’s time. If I had one criticism, it’s the decision to announce the falsehood upfront. How much more delicious, one feels, to discover the fiction oneself as one reads? That temporary uncertainty where one finds oneself thinking, Is it…?

The quality of the book is notable. From the cover, to the interior illustrations, to the depth and comprehensiveness of the text, the project is fully realised. Articulate and entertaining, there’s a rich invented world to explore. Marquardt has truly considered every angle. The book is divided into four sections: the sport, including rules, tactics, techniques and so forth; History and Philosophy, looking at the origins and mindset behind the sport; a miscellany covering everything from training and diet to core strength and woo woo; and finally a section on memorable matches from Hop Fight history.

It’s a delicious blend of imagination and humour, delivered in accessible and eloquent prose, in such a way that it reads completely straight. The actual content aside, this mirrors perfectly books on traditional old sports, the sort of thing one might pick up on bog-snorkelling, cheese rolling or shin kicking. One might argue that it’s a one-joke conceit, but that’s besides the point; when the joke is told this well, it’s worth the effort.

There are, perhaps, a few areas in which I might have chosen to rein in the absurdity. The ongoing dispute between the two governing bodies is an area where, arguably, the humour gets a little too broad. But these are small matters of personal taste, overridden by the cumulative joy the book offers.

Fair to say, it’s not a life-changing experience. It’s not a book that will stay with you or become a lifelong favourite, but there’s room on the shelf for all kind of experiences and what Hop Fight offers is simple pleasure and, for those of us of a certain vintage, a nostalgic hit of childhood when we were stupid enough to actually do stuff like this. Now then, On your foot…!

F. T. Marquardt lived in Naperville until his untimely death in 2025. Hop Fight is published by Fiero Books. My thanks to the publisher for this ARC, reviewed for Reedsy.com

Support Independent Book Shops and my own writing by pruchasing Hop Fight from uk.bookshop.org
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Dust, Grit, and Vengeance by Drew Baker

Book Reviews, ,
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Readers of Baker’s debut novella The LET Project will already know that he’s a great storyteller and Dust, Grit, and Vengeance goes a long way to cementing that reputation.

Luke and Kootala are two young men and, in a refreshing flaunting of Western norms, a couple living in Bluff’s Reach, Arizona in a time when the white man’s expansion west is driven by the railroad and the pursuit of wealth. Kootala is clerk to the Sheriff of Bluff’s Reach and Luke, unbeknownst to his husband, is leading a double life as an outlaw, in debt to the villainous Casey Calhoun. Calhoun’s hunger for power will soon result in a plot that will tear these men apart, yet can only be stopped by them finding a way to come back together.

Baker’s character work in this novel is a step up from The LET Project. There were times when, as excellent as that novella was, the main protagonist felt flat and sketchy. In Luke and Kootala, we have two leads whose love for each other is the anchor that gives weight to their characterisation. Calhoun is not much more than a moustache-twirling villain of the old school, but his relationship to his henchwoman Cassidy Reeve has a complexity that gives her a depth that engages the reader also.

The plot utilises some standard Western tropes. We have heists, shoot-outs and a climactic runaway train sequence, but tropes exist for a reason and there’s no shame in giving readers a flavour of what they’re expecting, if it’s blended well. In this case, the sexual politics and fantasy elements introduce the something new that elevates the story. It’s fair to say that those fantasy elements may at first seem superfluous; they’re only sporadically referenced in the first two thirds of the book, which wouldn’t have to be changed too much to expunge them entirely. However, Baker knows what he’s doing and as we race to the end, Kootala’s understanding of his magical abilities is the peg on which his character arc is hung, giving both him and the concept purpose.

If anything requires a little further exploration, it’s the exact nature of the cultural norms that shape Baker’s West. While some people are aggressively derogatory about Luke and Kootala’s relationship, it seems accepted as ordinary by most of their fellow townsfolk, and there seem to be less social constraints on women than one would expect of the times. However, given that the reader will finish the book hankering to find out what’s next for Luke, Kootala and Cassidy, we can only hope that that further exploration is made possible by further adventures in this most engaging of created worlds. In short; more please!

Drew Baker is a science fiction, fantasy and horror writer about whom I couldn’t find out much more. His first novella The LET Project was reviewed on this site in October last year. My thanks to Reedsy.com and the author for providing this ARC.

Purchase Dust, Grit, and Vengeance from that billionaire’s website.
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Noopiming: The Cure for White Ladies by Leanne Betasamosake Simpson

Book Reviews, , ,
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Within the pages of Noopiming we meet a diverse array of characters of the First Nations; people, animals, spirits, all trying to live their honest lives in a world that in some ways, thanks to the white man, is no longer theirs.

These characters are presented in series of snippets, anything from just over a page long to a simple sentence. Thoughts, ideas, philosophies are interspersed with moments of the everyday, brief interactions, collected seemingly at random and yet undeniably presented with purpose. This collage of ideas and moments, like the special things each character possesses, individually perhaps seem to carry little weight but together present a form of insight, be it opaque, difficult to grasp. Yet undeniably compelling, a significance that is palpable to the reader even as they may struggle interpret it.

Mindimooyenh keeps their special things zippered into their front pocket:

fishing line and a needle

baggie full of assorted buttons

nail clippers

There is mystery here, the author making little to no concession to the reader; presenting without explaining, in English but with no translation. There is, however, beauty in the telling and as we progress, we soak in its meaning. We realise that the barrier to our full comprehension is that thrown up by modern living, our having lost touch with who we are, our place in the world. Our false belief that we live surrounded by nature, rather than as part of it.

This sounds weighty, yet Noopiming is also charming, funny. It’s less a lecture than a friendly reminder; an encouragement – this is what we have lost, but it is also what we could be.

My perspective as a reader, of course, is from outside of this culture. As a white European, I’m the source of the malaise that blinds me, but I don’t feel excluded or resented, I feel drawn in. This is for you too, Noopiming says to me.

Often with books from other cultures, they feel like a window into another place, a different world. What’s striking about Noopiming is that constant reminders that this is a different culture but the same world. This is crucial to the book’s draw, its message, but as I say, this isn’t delivered in a way that hectors or condemns. It’s an inspiration. It is also, it must be said, a beautiful, poetic, engaging novel that is a delight to read and that will stay with the reader far beyond that final page.

Leanne Betasamosake Simpson is a Michi Saagiig Nishnaabeg writer, scholar, and musician, and a member of Alderville First Nation. She is the author of five previous books, including the multi-award-winning This Accident of Being Lost, which was named a best book of the year by the Globe and Mail, National Post, and Quill & Quire. She has released two albums, including f(l)ight, which is a companion piece to This Accident of Being Lost. Noopiming is published by & Other Stories.

Support Independent book shops and my own writing by purchasing Noopiming at uk.bookshop.org
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Dreaming of Dead People by Rosalind Belben

Book Reviews, , ,
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First published in 1979, Dreaming of Dead People has been given a new lease of life by And Other Stories and we can but hope that this allows a new generation to discover this astonishing, extraordinary novel.

It’s not so easy to succinctly describe what the book is about. The opening chapter describes a woman’s solo visit to Venice, where she by chance falls in with a family with young children, leading her to reflect on how her life has turned out how she imagined it would.

Over the subsequent chapters we learn more of our protagonist, though in some senses protagonist isn’t exactly the word. She does not, in the traditional sense, drive the narrative forwards. Rather, we discover her through a series of reflective chapters, each on a different theme and with a different feeling than the last. Although, as we progress, certain themes reappear and we gradually build a picture of this woman who’s never married or had children, who grew up surrounded by animals and has all the pragmatic love for them that a country upbringing can bestow, who wasn’t shown fondness by a mother to whom she is now devoted, and who hasn’t had sex in a long time.

Sex, the natural world, the relationships between parents and children… perhaps, then, only one theme, or one unified suite of themes, explored with a visceral honesty through the rawest and most exquisite prose. For this is a truly remarkably written novel. In one memorable and devastating sequence, we are told the tale of how she came to end the life her most beloved dog, the reasons why and the manner in which it happened, in the most blunt and straightforward way. This bluntness is also employed when she talks about sex, and yet despite the strong language employed, it never comes across as coarse, simply because it’s so matter-of-fact. Sex is often referred to as ‘fucking’, not out of desire to shock or any roughness of character, but simply, one feels, because ‘sex’ as a term can describe anything from passionate love-making to rudimentary fumbling, with any amount of emotional engagement from none to all-encompassing. Belben uses ‘fucking’ because it is the right word for the act she wishes to describe; the act she wishes to differentiate from its emotional aspect. This emotional aspect may be no less important, but it is / can be a separate entity to the act and so the references to fucking are nothing more or less than a desire to be precise.

This, then, is the quality that truly distinguishes her prose; precision. Not so much eloquent as exact.

And this, then allows her story to hit hard emotionally even when told in the driest of voices; because it is simply told so well as to render Lavinia entirely knowable; it is literature as portraiture. The ‘story’ is, in fact, a portrait of a woman of a certain age, her deepest feelings exposed on the page as explicitly as it is possible to imagine. Indeed, so visceral and compelling is the portrait that one time and again feels that, while the protagonist is named as Lavinia, this level of authenticity can only come from the writer writing about herself. How far Lavinia is Belben is, perhaps, the question that will consume the reader most upon finishing. Yet that may be to do Belben a disservice. Maybe we need Belben to be Lavinia because the alternative, that this is entirely a work of fiction, stretches our concept of what the novelist is capable of so far that we can scare believe it.

Rosalind Belben has written eight novels between 1972 and 2007, including the James Tait Black Award-winning Our Horses in Egypt. She was born in Dorset where, after a nomadic life, she now resides again. You can hear Belben reading from Dreaming of Dead People here. And Other Stories also plan to reissue new editions of Is Beauty Good and Choosing Spectacles.

Support Independent Book Shops and my own writing, by purchasing Dreaming of Dead People at uk.bookshop.org
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Body And Soul by Andrew Hook

Book Reviews, ,
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The people of Heart live in isolated, rural communities, dragging a living for themselves out of the soil, but their lives are peaceful, simple and happy. Few of them ever leave their settlements, but those that do cannot return. Forced to spend the rest of their days travelling, they seek out the comfort of other settlements, exchanging stories for food and a single night’s comfort before moving on.

Calvin is enchanted as a young boy by the visit of the traveller Book, and before many seasons pass, he gives in to his own desire to travel, bidding farewell to all he knows in return for a life of discovery.

For a while, he travels as other travellers do, alone and reliant on the kindness of strangers. Then he falls in with a rare female traveller, Moss, and his life starts to take on new direction.

There is so much to this book. Life on Heart is richly imagined, full of considered detail, to the extent that it feels tangible, solid, real. Even concepts such as the unusual birth process, whereby the female carries the body and the man the soul, and if the man is not present at birth the soul is lost and the body born as an empty vessel, seem tenuous in description but are deeply rooted in the soil and earth of Heart. Described as vividly and elegantly as they are by Hook’s sterling prose, they are rendered believable. The quality of the prose, indeed, does much to elevate the story. Confident, accessible and in a sense quite dry, it delivers a story that the reader can have confidence in.

There is more going on than I’ve hinted at here and it won’t take long for readers to work out where some of it is going. Evidence of a fallen civilisation forgotten by most of Heart’s static inhabitants, rediscovered by its travellers, will ring bells for most readers at some point prior to the truth being laid bare. But how that truth comes to be revealed is both intriguing and compelling.

Perhaps Body and Soul‘s strongest ingredient, however, is its emotional truth. The prose may be somewhat dry but that, counterintuitively perhaps, underlines and reinforces the emotional content. Calvin’s relationship with Moss is complex and ultimately what keeps them together is a muddy blend of necessity and sincere attachment, something that stands high above much of genre fiction in terms of its realism and, frankly, the way it will resonate with readers. It’s undoubtedly a real relationship, with all the good and bad that that entails. And it’s the emotional, forgive me, heart that is the foundation of every other strength this remarkable and astonishing novel possesses. As a writer, it’s the sort of book I wish I could write; as a reader, I simply adored it.

Andrew Hook is a UK-based author with over 180 stories published, plus several short story collections, novellas and novels. He is the founder of award-winning indie publisher Elastic Press and crime fiction imprint Head Shot Press. He’s also co-editor at Salò  Press, as well as being a freelance proofreader and typesetter.

Support Independent Book Shops and my own writing by purchasing Body And Soul at uk.bookshop.org
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Gray Area Gallery, Norwich

Arts, Mental health, ,

I was recently sent a proof copy of The Sea, The Sea, a forthcoming collection from Waterland Books of writing about the Norfolk and Suffolk coast (which includes an excerpt of my debut Playtime’s Over). Excitingly, the cover utilises artwork by Great Yarmouth artist Claire Cansick. I’ve followed Claire on Social Media for some time, and dig her work, so am excited to be in a book that also features her artwork.

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Because of this, when walking through town the other day, my attention was grabbed by a poster detailing an exhibition her work was being included in. Having some time on my hands, I decided I should pop along and give it a look before it closes on 15 Feb.

I’d never heard of the Gray Area Gallery, which is perhaps no surprise as it’s tucked away on a small street behind Dereham Road, just behind Notre Dame Prep. It turned out to be, however, well worth the trip.

All five of the artists involved had some excellent and in some cases astonishing work on display. Bob Catchpole‘s sculptures, found metal tools for which he’s carved new handles out of Norfolk Oak, are really quite something. Spades with a forest of tiny handles sprouting from the metalwork, or a handle made of links from a chain. One spade with a handle apparently tied in a knot was just beautiful. Taking these practical implements and breathing new life into them, turning them into something to be appreciated on an aesthetic level, and thereby making the viewer see the unnoticed in a whole new light.

Likewise Louise Dougherty‘s mixed media pieces – absolutely stunning Broadland scenes, which on their own would have been superb, with a textile element that gives an extra dimension to the work. James Hunter‘s Hockney-esque paintings capturing urban moments work so well with colour and shape. Beth Morrison‘s ceramics were perhaps furthest from my usual taste, yet some of the pieces I really liked and, en masse, they drew me in as a viewer to appreciate the textures and forms created. And, naturally, it was a pleasure to see some of Claire’s work in the flesh.

I’m, perhaps, unfitted to talk too much about fine art, but it is something I appreciate more and more as I get older. It was delightful, therefore, to discover this gallery. Unsurprisingly, on a grey Thursday morning in February, I was the only visitor at the time, but that gave me a chance to talk to the curator, who was enthusiastic and welcoming. We chatted a bit about the works, our preferences and how I’d come to be visiting that morning. Despite the modest size of the unit the gallery’s housed in, I was there for some time. Furthermore, I’ve every intention of returning. With a new exhibition every month, and regular open days between exhibitions where they display work from the artists they represent, this feels like an opportunity to partake of a steady stream of art that’s fresh and new to me. And all tucked away on a back street in Norwich.

Worth noting, too, that recent studies have shown that there are huge wellbeing implications in seeing original artworks up close and personal in a gallery space, as opposed to viewing reproductions  in a non-specific environment. It makes you feel good. For info on the stress-busting benefits of art appreciation, this article is well worth a look.

If you’re in Norwich, Landmark is open until this Sunday and well worth half an hour of anyone’s time. If not, I encourage you to seek out the hidden gems in your hometown. You never know what joys you might find…

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Petty Lies by Sulmi Bak

Book Reviews, ,
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Mira, Jiwon, Yuchan and Yujae are bound together in a story of cruelty and revenge. What’s not clear is whose revenge and whose cruelty lies at the heart of this twisted, mysterious narrative.

When Mira takes on the job of tutoring Jiwon’s youngest son Yujae, she has a secret motive for getting involved with this family, one that is tied up with the relationship between Yujae and his mother, and with his brother Yuchan. Yet as the story progresses, more and more layers are peeled away and we find that nothing we are initially told can be taken at face value.

This is a fantastic read, horrific in parts* but utterly engrossing. Described as We Need to Talk About Kevin meets The Vegetarian, there is definitely a lot of the former book’s DNA in the shocking, sociopathic behaviour of the malevolent Yujae (though I suspect the latter is referenced for little more than the fact that the author is Korean and the story is told from multiple perspectives). While Yujae’s behaviour is shocking, it is mother Jiwon’s handling of this that perhaps is the most disquieting.

The story is told in four chapters, presenting the stories of the tutor, the mother, the son and the brother, although the demands of the narrative mean that while the first two chapters, Mira and Jiwon’s, are told straightforwardly in their voices, Yujae’s is told partly through diary entries and Yuchan’s has to be presented to Jiwon by Mira. This feels a little as if, having decided to present the four perspectives, the author wasn’t quite able to make the format work in a way that would bring us to the conclusion she wanted, and it therefore feels a tiny bit forced.

However, this is a small criticism, and in no way prevents the book from packing a powerful punch. Likewise, though at times the narrative feels outlandish it doesn’t prevent the reader from engaging and reaching a point where they not only desire but need to know what happens next. A slim book, it very much tells the story it came to tell and doesn’t waste time with padding. It’s easy to read but will stay with you long after you’ve finished it, and so there is ultimately much to commend this for being an impressive debut.

Sulmi Bak majored in journalism and has worked as a writer for a major Korean gaming company. Petty Lies is her debut novel, and was initially published as an eBook before being reissued in paperback due to popular demand. It went on to win several prizes, and is followed by two other stand-alone novels, The Silence of the Swan and Dalwhinnie Hotel. Petty Lies is translated by Sarah Lyo and is published in the UK by Bloomsbury.

Support Independent Book shops and my writing by purchasing at uk.bookshop.org

* In all seriousness, if you’re triggered by animal abuse, you should tread carefully.

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It’s not M.E., it’s you.

Personal, ,

Last August, while my wife was away for a few days, I picked up what felt like a heavy, rubbishy cold. Hot/cold, the full sweats, aching, the whole bit. It lasted in the region of 4-6 days, but when the symptoms abated, I was left feeling utterly wiped out.

I didn’t go back to work for five months.

I never imagined, of course, that that lay ahead of me. I got signed off for a couple of weeks, post-viral fatigue. Not a new one on me, unfortunately. In the last four years (since COVID-19, essentially), I don’t think I’ve had a year go past without having to be signed off for 2-3 weeks at some point with PVF. It doesn’t seem like I pick up more than the average amount of viruses, but it certainly looks like I’ve a tendency to struggle more and more with getting over it.

What was unusual in this instance was that after that initial Fit Note elapsed, I ended going back for another. And another. And before I knew it, I was being signed off until mid-February for something that had started in late August. That day was a shock. My wife had come with me to the doctors’, something she had taken to doing to ensure I was being accurate in how I relayed my symptoms – I’d already been told off at one point for toying with the idea of returning to work at a stage when I was clearly not ready to do so. On this occasion, it was a particularly good job she was there, as I struggled to compute the significance of such an extended absence from work.

Both my employers had been very accommodating (and continue to be so, I will add now), but it’s hard not to feel like you’re taking liberties when you have to email them to pass on yet another Fit Note, this one for three months, just for being tired.

Of course, there’s no ‘just’ about it. Tired, yes. So tired that some days I couldn’t get out of bed. So tired that some days just the act of walking downstairs from my bedroom to the couch would leave me breathless and faint. So tired that for three months at least, I would need to go back to bed for two or three hours sleep in the afternoon, every day. So tired that for four months, I couldn’t do even five minutes of writing because my concentration levels were completely shot.

But still, there’s something demoralising about the vagueness of ‘fatigue’ that plays into one’s belief that one is a charlatan, a faker, even at the same time as being unable to read a book because one’s head is too groggy.

The symptoms fluctuated. Some days I’d wake up feeling relatively normal, and would continue to feel relatively normal until, you know, I did something. Some days a walk to the shops at the end of the road was achievable. Exhausting, but achievable. Some days, it was not.

My GP, at the last visit, had also decided it was time to explore a new line of enquiry. I was referred to the CFS clinic. Chronic Fatigue Syndrome certainly felt like it described what I was going through and while I wouldn’t have forwarded the idea myself, she seemed reasonably sure that we could be looking at Myalgic encephalomyelitis (M.E.). Daunting. The reality of an ongoing chronic health condition was worrying, but at least it would give an explanation, both for this bout and the increased inability to shake any kind of infection off.

These things take time though. In mid-November, after periodic abdominal discomfort and nausea throughout the illness, I had a sustained week of feeling really rotten stomach issues. I’ll spare you the details. After that week, though, we began to see a gradual improvement in my symptoms generally. Christmas came and went.

Letters and forms received and completed, my appointment finally came through for the CFS for the end of January. By this time, I was already gearing up to return to work. Though still consistently tired, it felt a lot more manageable and I felt at the tipping point between needing to prioritise my physical health and addressing the impact that ongoing absence was having on my mental health. In a nutshell, I wanted to get back to work while I still could, before becoming a total shut-in. So conversations about my return were happening, an Occ Health referral was in place, and dates were being discussed. All against the backdrop of dealing with what looked like it would be an ongoing condition.

The phonecall to the CFS didn’t take long. In the end, it wasn’t the severity of my symptoms that led her to conclude I didn’t have M.E., but rather the breadth of symptoms. I wasn’t experiencing all or enough of the symptoms to justify a diagnosis. I was, for example, experiencing post-exertion fatigue, not post-exertion malaise. Activity making me very tired wasn’t enough if it wasn’t also resulting in headaches, inflammation of my glands, acute discomfort in my joints and other physical symptoms. What I had was, in her opinion, a lengthy period of Post-Viral Fatigue, something which it sounded like I was more susceptible to than most.

So that was that. Having geared myself up to a diagnosis of CFS and what that would mean for me going forward, I had to realign my expectations again and accept that what I had wasn’t an ongoing chronic condition, but just something crappy I was experiencing that was both an isolated experience, but also an isolated experience I could expect to happen more frequently. It wasn’t M.E., it was just me.

Now, naturally, nobody wants to have a chronic health condition. So this is, by any standard, good news.

Except of course, the difference between having an ongoing condition on the one hand, and a susceptibility to isolated bouts of illness on the other, is the challenge it poses to one’s absence record. ‘Being more likely to get stuff’ isn’t covered, for example, by the Equalities Act. It’s not an ongoing situation if it’s just a series of unrelated illnesses.

It does leave one feeling just slightly precarious.

So all I can do at the moment is build up my stamina; try and improve my general wellness to try and reduce my chances of getting ill; and increase my resilience for when I do. Lose weight, get fitter, get outside more. All that. And keep my fingers crossed that the next time I get a crappy cold it doesn’t lay me out for half a year. As accommodating as my employers have been, the current situation doesn’t feel like a sustainable model.

I had my first shift back at work yesterday, for one of my two jobs. We’ve agreed a phased return for both jobs and managed to stagger the return dates, so I’ve worked half a day this week, and am down for two half days next week, before starting back at the other job the week after that. I won’t be back up to my full hours for another 5-6 weeks, by which time I’ll hopefully be up to it.

And that first shift back went okay. I stuck it out, got some stuff done. I think there was a certain amount of adrenalin getting me through it – as chipper as I was there, by the time I got home I was ready to drop. And ironically, when I woke up this morning, it wasn’t just fatigue but also aching limbs (my hands particularly, weirdly) and a really groggy, out-of-it head. All the stuff I’d told the CFS clinic I wasn’t experiencing, because back then I hadn’t been. I’m reassuring myself that of course I feel done in today; I’ve just been back to work after five months off sick. And there’s always the chance that it’s psychosomatic; that my brain’s heard that I should be experiencing those things, so it’s decided to act like I am. Stupid brain.

The hands thing is odd though. One of the things I have been able to do for the past three or four weeks is typing, so it’s not like that was a new thing for me yesterday, but they feel really tight and crampy today. But we’ll play it by ear.

All we can do, right?

04 February 2026