And just like that, half the island was struck down by a mysterious 24 hour bug, which manifests itself through near-constant vomiting and all sorts of other nastiness - aches, dizziness, insomnia, fever - and is not very pleasant at all.

And I got it too.

I’m starting to feel a wee bit better, though I haven’t slept or eaten in 24 hours, and feel fairly abysmal. Apparently I am very white indeed - I ventured out of bed this afternoon for a wobbly-legged walk down to the village, and eight people commented on my pallor. Look, I’m from London. We’re all this sickly-looking….

Right. Going back to bed and going to try and hold down something more substantial than water. Haven’t managed it yet (haven’t managed to hold down water either, come to that) but it’s worth a try.

Bah, and indeed, Humbug.

It’s odd. You don’t know how dark darkness actually is until you realise that the kind of darkness you are used to is, in fact, relative rather than absolute.

Last night, the island was whipped with gales throughout the night, and at at some point in the early hours (after 2.30am, when P called from the Tyne Bridge, and before 5.45am, when my mum came in to my room looking for a torch) the electricity lines went down all over the island.

Way before dawn, Jan came in, looking for a torch. She called hello into the dark room, and I responded from under my two duvets, and got up to help. I couldn’t see her. In fact, I couldn’t even see my hand in front of my face - this was real darkness, absolutely pitch black, devoid entirely of light. We bumbled around each other like Laurel and Hardy in the gloom, fumbling for a torch we couldn’t find.

So, no electricity - which meant no heating, no lights, no kettle, no radio, no tv, and no computer. The horror. Funny how dark darkness is when you’re not huddling inside or comparing it to light. There is no ambient light here, no light pollution - the storm clouds obscured the moon, and there was no distinction between sea and sky and land. Total darkness.

I waited until dawn broke (at half past eight) to visit the loo, and then crawled back into bed with a woolly hat and socks on.

When I did get up, though, I felt strangely liberated by the lack of electricity - nothing to do but read, nothing to drink but water. I curled up in the grey snow-light coming through the windows, and read.