16 MARCH 1985, Page 31

Off Sick

Regime of the house: the sun's morning Tour, his unsuspected finger on a dim corner.

The house is not primed for my presence. I intrude On its private life. Forgive me, house, My excuse is fever. You can disregard me. If I were myself! should not be here.

My true world is dancing to its own Metronome: mail, first clinic, coffee-break, FEM's letters. Someone there is being me, Not perfectly, I hope. I sweat to think They imagine me malingering, may fancy I enjoy this fretting leisure, place of estrangement.

U. A. Fanthorpe