Wednesday, bin day, however before I can get into that excitement I wake to find my partner in pain. So it was warm drink and hot water bottle time. There is a dishwasher to clear and breakfast to have. My youngest daughter is up and around preparing to go home today. My watch press arrives and I put my partners watch back back into place only to find that the second hand has detached from the central spindle. A cruel irony. I fulfil a fortnightly chore of filling my drugs wallets, and order my next injection realising that I’ve left it a bit late to order the prescription. It going to be tight on time given the New Year bank holiday is coming up. It’s cancer life admin and its a pain in arse.
My partner gets up having taken some pain killers and makes bacon sandwiches. We hug our youngest farewell and wave her off. I am itchy in my being and need to train. I get like this is I haven’t trained for three or four days. The excess of Christmas goodies only serve to reinforce my “itchiness” and my fears of putting on weight, an anxiety fuelled by the possible side effects of the new medication. I decide to go to the gym.
I fill the car on the way and get a bit of a shock at how much it actually costs in these post Brexit Pandemic days to completely fill the car. So with a full tank and right pressured tyres I drive to the gym. Once again the bar and restaurant is closed. Its beginning to wear thin and will be accruing some less than complimentary feedback on their non existent services. I change and get myself a cross trainer. An hour later I’ve burnt off 650 calories and gone 8.15 kilometres. I shower and sit in the infertile lounge finally checking my emails, messages and apps. Friends have messaged me and phoned me, I feel rude not to have checked earlier or replied. I drive home and the decision is made get a take away as no one want to cook. The evening drifts into football and Shirley Valentine as I write the blog.
It occurs to me that I do not like these festive times, these landmark, punctuations in life. There is something in the unconscious as well as the conscious that nags, that voice that says this could be your last one. Of course the temptation is then to think that it has to be the best one yet, a really good one to go out on. I wonder how often others think that and never voice it. Anyway it is the quiet regularity that affords me the time to think and write that I value the most. In the coming year I intend to pursue some more of my favourite activities. How well this goes might be determined by just how much the cost of living goes up as the Russians starve us of gas, the arabs oil and our politicians of integrity and public welfare.
