What happened there has been puzzling me ever since:
(i) by the trolleys someone I knew asked me if I was well in such concerned tones that I suspected it was not just a variant on the usual greeting;
(ii) just as I was reaching for a handful of Brussel sprouts a former colleague greeted me and said that he hoped I would be better soon because I'd obviously not been well;
(iii) then in the lifts a stranger looked most sympathetically at me and said, 'Take care of yourself, love, and mind you keep out of this cold.'
This is very disturbing because I am, in fact, the picture of health. I scrutinised my face in the mirror when I came in and could not detect any sort of unhealthy pallor. True, I have rarely been out of doors recently and therefore it is possible I could be suffering from a vitamin D deficiency, and I guess have been concentrating on THE NOVEL to such an unhealthy extent that I sometimes believe I know (and talk to) the people I am writing about, and yes, I did suffer from the usual existential angst by the plastic bags of pre-sliced breads - but surely this is perfectly normal.
Now, every time I pass a mirror I look at myself. Is this how hypochondria starts, I wonder - looking into the mirror to check for signs of pathological decay?