On Sunday 10th December I visited London, from Sheffield, to attend a few meetings and to facilitate two workshops. The trip was planned for three days, after which time I'd return to Sheffield to spend the rest of December relaxing at home and gearing up for Christmas. That was six weeks ago, and today I'm still in London. This is my story. It's a long story, so if you prefer you can just look at the progression through pictures in the mugshot gallery.

Our family relocated to Sheffield on 1st December, leaving our rental home in Twickenham before the lease expired, and reliant on the agent to find another tenant. Meanwhile, we were still liable for the rent, so I had decided to stay there during this trip, even though the house was empty. I brought bedding down with me and borrowed a mattress from our next-door neighbour, Nicky. Sparse accommodation, but it sufficed.

I woke up on the 11th feeling tired and unwell. I missed my three scheduled meetings, and slept through most of the day. That night I noticed a swelling on my forehead and on the bridge of my nose. It was a little unsightly, but I experienced no pain. I put icepacks on the area to bring the swelling down, set my alarm for 5 am and went back to sleep for the night.

The following morning the swelling was worse and pushing down on my left eye. I was a little more worried now, but decided to go ahead with the planned Storytelling workshop. Throughout the day the swelling grew increasingly worse, and was actually changing my appearance. My left eye was rapidly closing up and the left side of my head was becoming distorted as the swelling pushed outwards. I felt weak, and very self-conscious. By the end of the day participants were expressing concern and a couple suggested I see a doctor immediately. I didn't. I went back to Twickenham. I went back somewhat delirious and today have no memory of the train rides home. I canceled a dinner that night, and called my friend Arif to inform him I wasn't able to co-teach with him the following day, something we had both been looking forward to. Then I went to sleep. I shudder today when I think about that. If the illness I'm about to describe had advanced just a little quicker than it did, I may not have woken up. Happily I did wake up. Unhappily I looked quite monstrous. The whole top of my head, the sides, forehead and nose, was swollen, my left eye completely closed up and now my right eye was beginning to follow suit.

Nicky came over to see how I was, panicked and called a taxi immediately to get me to the West Middlesex hospital. I hurriedly packed a few clothes, and (insanely) my laptop. On reaching the hospital the taxi driver needed to walk me into the emergency room as I could barely see, and my legs were getting weaker by the minute. After my initial arrival, the rest of the day, and the five or six days following are blurred and dreamlike. I remember my sister, Juliette, being there. I remember the doctors cutting into my head. I remember talk of immediate plastic surgery. I remember sleeping and waking up to find my neck was also swelling up. And I remember being told the doctors were going to give me general anaesthetic, put a tube down my throat and cart me off to Chelsea and Westminster hospital where the plastic surgeons and infectious disease doctors were better able to assess me. I don't remember the order of those events, and I don't remember much else. For five days I was essentially blind, seeing only a little light and shadow with my right eye. I learnt that the words "here" and "there" have no meaning to a blind person, and when an object is moved it vanishes from the world.

As soon as Rayna heard the seriousness of the infection, she hurriedly packed a few clothes, toys and books and headed to London with our daughters. Juliette offered to have them stay, all of us thinking it would just be a matter of days before I came out, and we could spend Christmas together. As it became clear I'd be in hospital for some time Rayna and the girls moved into our empty Twickenham house, with a couple more mattresses and a few sticks of furniture kindly loaned by Juliette. The failure of the estate agent to re-rent the house had worked in our favour. A few days later my other sister Emily, drove down from Norfolk with a van load of household essentials, to enhance their living situation. Good to have my sisters rallying around.

Rayna visited as often as she could, sometimes alone if she could find someone to care for the children, and sometimes bringing them along. Those early visits were miserable for the girls. The trip from Teddington by public transport took close to two hours each way. I must have looked shocking to them, my bed-ridden condition distressing, and my inability to interact greatly disappointing. I think they visited twice and then I asked Rayna not to bring them again, and if she couldn't find a childminder to not come herself. This felt sad, but sadder to have the children there with me unable to interact. Apart from Rayna, who I wanted to see and be with very much, there was no one else I wanted to see, despite the kind offers of friends to visit me. Conversation was just too tiring, and I was essentially unrecognisable as me, something I hadn't come to terms with yet. Later on when I did get visits there were two occasions when I heard my visitor asking the nurses where I was, while I lay on the bed, right next to where they were standing.

On the third or fourth day it was discovered I also had serious stomach ulcers, which had knocked my red blood count down from a healthy 120 to a dangerous 40. This explained my weakness and lack of appetite. I was given blood transfusions for three days in an attempt to raise this. It went up to about 70 and around day five I could walk to the bathroom in my private room using a walking frame, a walk of about eight feet. I was in this room as they didn't yet know how contagious I was. Not eating for a week caused my body to essentially feed of itself. My muscles diminished, further weakening me. My biceps reduced to such an extent that the skin in my upper arms became crumpled and loose. Oh yes, and my hair was coming out in clumps. What remained stuck up straight, giving me a clown-like appearance. And my calves, ankles and feet swelled up from inactivity. Rayna commented that no part of me was the same—arms, legs, face, head, eyes, even my smell had changed, as I seemed to have no body odour at all—and yet there she was, loving me through it all.

During the first ten days, bed-bound and hooked up to a catheter taking liquid out of me, and various drips putting (different!) liquids back in, I underwent further facial exploration with scalpels and needles, had blue lines drawn on me to measure the increase or decrease of the spread, was subjected to a CT scan, an ultrasound scan and an MRI, and under general anaesthetic I had a camera inserted down my throat to explore my insides, in the first part of a dual operation cutely referred to by doctors as "top and tail". I'm happy to say I didn't need the second part. I was seen by eye doctors, plastic surgeons, infectious disease specialists and microbiologists, along with regular visits from the ward doctors. I received a lot of conflicting information as they were all still puzzled. But they did have a name for it: periorbital cellulitis. My own name for it was facial clusterfuck.

The infection responded well to the antibiotics during the first ten days. My sight came back in my right eye, although with new lumps developing on my right eyelid I mostly saw the floor, having to tilt my head far back to see the face of the person talking with me. My strength gradually came back too, but it wasn't until the 28th that I actually walked unaided. The second ten days saw little change. The remaining swelling was rock hard now, and stubborn, and there was no doctor to talk to as everyone was taking time off for Christmas. The period between Christmas and the new year was really just holding-time. No new patients came into our ward, and none left. I spent my time walking the corridors, occasionally climbing stairs, visiting the chapel, drawing a little, and eating. My appetite came back with a vengeance and I seemed to be always hungry. Luckily the food was good and plentiful.

Although I didn't want visitors, two long term friends decided to ignore that request and came anyway. Hel visited me when I looked about at my worst, bringing me food I couldn't eat, and Dorit arrived on Christmas eve, bringing me a beautiful Tibetan blanket, and wrapping me up, took me on a wheelchair walk around the hospital, my first venture outside the ward. She came again on Boxing Day to bring me leftovers from her Christmas dinner, and Hel came again a couple of days later to bring mince pies. The visits were actually lovely, and full of catch-up as in both cases it had been a while. I figured visits weren't so bad. My friend Arif came on Christmas day, and Ahmad, on a brief visit to the UK from Istanbul with his family, took time out from his itinerary to visit me twice. Arif brought me news of the social media world, and told me of all the good will messages and prayers that had gone out to me. Ahmad brought news of his year-long Sufi retreat, a box of turkish delight, and a book on the spirit of Islam. "I'm not trying to convert you" he said, with a smile.

And time passed. I was finally released into the wild on 3rd January, and returned to our sparse, temporary home. I continued, and am continuing out-patient treatment at West Middlesex. I visit daily to have intravenous anti-biotics and attend regular consultations. I also decided to visit our local, rather well-renowned acupuncturist and Chinese herbal doctor. Twenty-four hours after my first acupuncture treatment the sight came back in my left eye, albeit very slightly. Some combination of eastern and western medicine is slowly bringing the swelling down, and my strength up, to the point where I was able to fulfil two teaching commitments, one last Friday and one earlier this week. I had support on each, both practical and moral. I couldn't have done it alone, so thanks, Sven and Arif. For the next 2-3 weeks though I plan to take it easy.

Our Twickenham house is finally let-agreed, with check-out tomorrow, so last night we moved into an airbnb for the next two weeks, pending our return to Sheffield. My outpatient treatment is due to complete at the end of the month, and will be followed by another MRI. Hopefully, by then the infection will have fully cleared up and no further intervention necessary—the options being even more antibiotics and/or surgery to drain my face, neither of which I relish. But there is hope. This morning I noticed my old wrinkles reappearing beside my left eye. I never imagined feeling joy at seeing facial wrinkles appear, but as they do, my hope rises that this infection is finally retreating.

I'd like to thank everyone for the many messages of love, hope and goodwill, and the prayers for recovery. Because my eyesight makes it difficult to be on the computer for a long time (this piece took three days to write) I'm not able to respond to everyone individually, but please know every message—the early ones read out to me, and the later ones received directly—were gratefully received. It's good to be part of a loving community.