I just
had them comfortably; enough to be infectious, but not enough to
feel ill, so I was left in pleasant solitude while the women
competed for the honour of smoothing my brother's pillow and
tiptoeing in a fidgeting manner round his bed. I lay on my back
and looked with placid interest at the cracks in the ceiling. They
were like the main roads in a map, and I amused myself by building
little houses beside them--houses full of books and warm
hearthrugs, and with a nice pond lively with tadpoles in the
garden of each. From the windows of the houses you could watch all
the traffic that went along the road, men and women and horses,
and best of all, the boys going to school in the morning--boys who
had not done their homework and who would be late for prayers.
When I talked about the cracks to my brother he said that perhaps
the ceiling would give way and fall on our heads. I thought about
this too, and found it quite easy to picture myself lying in the
bed with a smashed head, and blood all over the pillow. Then it
occurred to me that the plaster might smash me all over, and my
impressions of Farringdon Meat Market added a gruesome vividness
to my conception of the consequences. I always found it pleasant
to imagine horrible things; it was only the reality that made me
sick.
Towards nightfall I became a little feverish, and I heard the
grown-ups say that they would give me some medicine later on.
Medicine for me signified the nauseous powders of Dr.
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