What if I wake up one morning and decide I don't want to leave the house that day?

Forget work, it's nothing but stress anyway. The blackberry is flashing, there are a few meetings and calls which I'm meant to make, but I tell my PA I'm not feeling well and get her to reschedule them. Then I snuggle back into my duvet, and turn over, and go back to sleep. When I finally wake up, it's nearly lunchtime. The blackberry seems even more frantic - I glance at it, 134 unread messages! - and wonder how it is possible that an inanimate red light can seem to be reproachful, accusing, even, in its relentless flashing.

I go downstairs, rummage in the fridge, have a snack. Dog whines, and tries to convince me that outside is where we need to be. I ignore him. The afternoon passes quickly, I doze off several times, and wake up, groggy and confused. All too soon it is dark, and Boy comes home, and asks me if I am unwell.

I feel perfectly fine, actually, if a bit grubby. We have dinner and then it's bedtime again. Blessed bedtime! The next day, I decide that one day is not enough, so I stay home again. Today I decide to be a little more useful, so I potter around the house, cleaning up, I sort out some admin (there is always admin!), I order things which we need, I continue to ignore Dog, who thinks it's some sick joke that I'm around but don't seem to want to go into the great outdoors.

Two days become three, become four, become a week. Boy is worried. Am I having a nervous breakdown? People start calling, work is concerned. I feel fine. No, I don't know when I'm leaving the house. No, I don't think I need a doctor. Yes, I really feel fine. I don't know why I'm doing this, I don't know what this is. All I know is that I woke up one day and I couldn't bring myself to get dressed to leave the house, so I decided to stay indoors.

I read, plenty, until my head is fuzzy with words. I watch tv. I start painting the spare room. I write a blog about staying in bed, hoping that it'll get published, but then find out someone else has written a book about it already. Never mind - I don't think that book was that good, anyway. I try new recipes from the internet, I do all my shopping online.

I don't think Boy will leave me - after all, the house is now well-kept, I've finished painting all the rooms, I cook dinner for him every night, and I'm certainly a lot more pleasant given I'm no longer strung-out and stressed all the time. Not immediately, anyway. Life goes on without me, outside the doors, people pushing and fighting and scurrying and running, running, running all the time.

And I stick photos of places I'll now never visit on the spare room walls.