Oliver Sacks is finished, and will be in next Saturday’s Guardian. I spent a lot of yesterday and this morning waiting for people to ring me back with comments, which is nervous-making. It doesn’t, however, normally bring me out in migraines. However, since I was writing about the author of Migraine, I came out in a sort I have never had before, right-sided rather than left-sided; and when I was interviewing a Cambridge historian for the next project this morning, I noticed all sorts of ununsual things happening in my visual field. It is hard to talk to someone whose face is transforming into desaturated lumps of disarticulated flesh.

Later, when I was driving my producer to the station in Cambridge. I couldn’t for a moment remember where it was, and worried that I couldn’t get through the one-way system to the cricket pitch, where, for some reason, I had placed it in my mind. Instead of being a mere brain fart, this became a fascinating cognitive dysfunction.

I don’t think my nerves could have taken much more of the story.

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