She pulled my hair, attacked my ear lobes and pounded me with all her might. How was this helping my back?
It is a truth universally acknowledged that an author who hands in her manuscript must be in want of a good physiotherapist.
After more than two years working on a book about Stoicism, my body had calcified around my laptop. My joints were always stiff and sore, sleep was unrefreshing and one shoulder had moved inches up towards my ear, as if I were perpetually holding a telephone receiver in the crook of my neck.
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