I have at last found a good use for last year’s post-operative tracksuit bottoms.  I have put them on, together with a particularly unattractive t-shirt and neither are coming off until I have written the remaining 10,000 words of my PhD in Creative Writing.  While my trackies do a good job of deterring me from leaving the house or seeing anybody outside the family, they aren’t a strong enough defence against endless trips to the garden to check up on the newts and the sweet peas or to the kitchen to make yet another cup of tea I’ll forget to drink.  Suddenly even a quadriceps exercise-break has some appeal.