Bored, bored, bored.
Even with a mountain of books and magazines and a laptop that could access the world, he was bored.
Being ill was the least interesting thing of all time.
He now knew exactly how many squares there were on the wallpaper of the wall at the opposite side of the room. He'd counted them five times.
He had realised that the stain on the ceiling from a leak years earlier looked a bit like a map of Australia if he rotated his head 36 degrees to the left and squinted slightly.
He knew every detail of a room which felt as if it were shrinking by the hour.
Bored, bored, bored.
He slept.
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