Sunday, a slow start, coffee in bed and morning chat. I’m sensing I am not chipper and it turns out I am right. Over a bacon sandwich late breakfast it became apparent that my internal organs were planning and escape via my nostrils. I’m not impressed and neither was my youngest daughter on a face-to-face call. Sniffing is not the most attractive accompaniment to a family call. I ransack the house looking for Actifed. It’s the one thing I have found for me that staves off the symptoms of a cold, crucial it dries my nose. I look in all my places of Actifed storage and find none. The only conclusion is that I have run out of this magic compound. This is a pain in the arse as it means going out to the major shopping complex which has a Boots.

I get my partners car out and drive off to the shopping centre thinking it is only going to take me a few minutes. How wrong can you be. It seems the world has decided that it want to go shopping (obviously the misery of recession hasn’t quite caught hold yet) the traffic was horrendous. Not only was everyone out stocking up before tomorrow’s funereal but the traffic flow system has an exit from the new part of the shopping complex exiting out into the traffic flow that is queuing to get into the complex. Its traffic flow madness, God knows what pimply trainee civic engineer was responsible for this. I get more irritated as my handkerchief gets more and more saturated and my sneezing increases. I finally get into park and cut through Primark (that’s an experience) to get to Boots. A friendly (to start with) chap helps me find the Actifed, however when I try to buy two packets, he refuses to sell me two. I’m an adult for fuck sake but I am clearly not to be trusted not to top myself. A classic case of how the minority screw it for the rest of us. I take my single packet (not a single suicidal thought in my head, more homicidal actually) and return to the car. The drive home went much quicker. Once home I take a tablet of the lethal drug and settle down to watch a rugby match on the TV. Serendipitously Tesco deliver at half time, which means I can get it all squirrelled away before the second half kicks off. The rugby finishes and my nose is now dry but at the expense of a certain cognitive buzz. I settle down to a football match and once again I am interrupted by a deliver. This time it is Amazon with my super glue. I set about mending the broken glass droplet that is part of the dining room light fitment. The operation is successful and a couple of hours later I return it to its hook on the array.

My partner returns from the gym and in due course my eldest daughter returns from the local Bird Garden, where her favourite Cockatoo lives. The evening starts with tea and more pre funereal TV followed by Ridley and me drafting the blog. It will be an early night for me in the spare room. One thing I did do in a moment was to scribble short poem, as follows:

They call my poetry
Boney.
No flesh
No story.
I open my eyes,
There is light
And wonder.
This is 
Enough.

I think it was prompted by the poetry books I bought yesterday and my internal conversations about trying to get poetry published. Either that or the rejection is beginning to get to me.

Saturday and a long lay in. Not until at least 10 o’clock did I rouse and make drinks for myself and partner which, we lay in bed drinking and talking. A sort of weekly catch up. Eventually we get up and have a breakfast at lunchtime. There are the usual chores to do but we are focussed on getting out today as we are going to visit the Astley Book Farm and Coffee Shop. My youngest daughter had recommended it to us knowing my love of books. We take a 40-minute drive to the farm and bump our way down the gravel track to the parking at the farm. What we walked into was book heaven. Barn upon interconnected barn filled with books of every sort. I am just in my element as I explore the shelves, roaming from corridor to corridor taking the occasional book down to look at. I loiter in the poetry section. After a lot of wandering around we took lunch in the yurt. Delicious sausage sandwiches and strawberry milkshake.

After eating our late lunch, we go back to the wandering the book maze and being awed by the range available. I could have spent a fortune, but I had to keep reminding myself of the huge numbers of books we have at home. No room in our house is without books and it’s difficult to find room for new ones. I finally hone down my choice to two books of poetry. I am after all trying to be a poet. My choices are below:

Happy with my new book we drive home and settle down to an evening of films and sandwiches until I am left alone to indulge myself in watching football while I draft the blog. It’s been a good day and I down my night meds adn go off to bed reasonably happy, although I fear the scales in the morning as I have had no training this week due to how crap I have been. If I am brave I will swim tomorrow.

Friday and I’m feeling chipperish. A quick burst of regal misery over breakfast and I head for the Shed to construct a letter. It takes ages to get to the end of it. At lunch time my partner and I eat bagel and beans before she returns to work, and I wander over to the post office to send my letter. The afternoon starts with watering yesterday’s daffodilled pots from which I move onto putting a new cover on the greenhouse. I decide to leave the old cover on and weather tape the frame pole lines so that the new cover will get a softer foundation. I perform an amazing feat of greenhouse cover fitting that makes putting on a duvet cover solo look like child’s play. I am surprised by the ease and the speed with which I complete the task. Go me.

So I move onto other chores like removing the accumulation of dead flies from the dining room light fitting, fitting new corncob bulbs in the inspection lanterns and getting my washing. I am on auto pilot, bored with myself, bored with the world of royal misery and bored with the pain of the fucking chicken egg sized lump my injection has left in me. I’m bored with only being able to perform mundane chores around the house and garden. It’s not like I’ve got that amount of time left to fritter away. I get a call from my sister who tells me how she is and what she has been occupied with of late. We reminisced about our grandfather and the things that she still has of him. He is someone who I would like my children to know more about, he was quite a character. Apparently the extended family at the time clubbed together so he could buy his way out of the army. After having spent almost nine years in India without home leave he was put on notice to go to Ireland, at which point the family decide that my grandmother could not face any more time away from my grandfather. We end our call and I move on.

Pizza bought from the village, drafting the blog and half watching a “psychological” thriller (which at least has the good grace to have a psychologist in it) constitutes the evening. It will whimper away with meds and increasing irritation till I slouch off to be born again, like some second coming.

Turning and turning in the widening gyre   
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere   
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst   
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.   
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out   
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert   
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,   
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,   
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it   
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.   
The darkness drops again; but now I know   
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,   
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,   
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

Yeats runs through me, one of my early influences, interesting that he turns up now again in these circumstances and his “The Second Coming” comes so clearly to mind.

Thursday and I get up after a better nights sleep. A simple breakfast and a dose of the current misery TV and I get myself into the garden. I spend all morning tending the pots and raised beds in the front garden. My front pots are now all full of daffodil bulbs. A favourable winter and cosy spring and the pots should look lovely. My partner feeds me a bacon sandwich before she goes to work, yep real travel to a real workplace. I potter changing light bulbs, ordering new ones and playing the toilet roll fairy role for the household. Chores done I go to the Shed and write letters. As I sit writing my eldest daughter messages to say she is coming home as she is feeling ill and duly arrives soon after and goes straight to bed for a nap. I post my letters, sort out a Tesco order and drift into the evening. My partner returns from the gym and we eat and watch Ridley together. As the evening progresses my energy disappears, and I once again become conscious of the injection lump in my gut. I draft the blog and take my meds before bed. All in all, despite my discomfort I have managed to do something that will come to fruition in the Spring, it feels hopeful, which I take to mean that I am gradually recovering. In my case that means getting back to it being as good as it gets again.

Wednesday and I wake up feeling decidedly more chipper than I have been over the last couple of days. What I feel is a sense of relief that I am coming out of my “junkie” like response to my monthly injection. I get up and make breakfast including brewing fresh coffee, a clear signal that I am feeling I have a few more spoons. While having breakfast I set todays blog page up before I run a bath and indulge in some nurturing. I laze for a long time in my bath messaging and reading. The idea of the bath is that it eases the soreness of my injection site, which is red and lumpy. It’s about the size of a small bird’s egg but feels like an Ostrich egg. I was hoping that post bath I would feel the same sense of energy that I woke up with. It turns out not to be so. I felt knackered and complained to a friend who kindly explained that a warm bath raises the heart rate and burns more energy. Live and learn.

At lunch I do not feel like eating but I have the delights of a letter to read. It’s a letter full of thought-provoking stuff and I end up writing notes all over it. I relent and have soup but also open a bag of fudge. A comfort manoeuvre. I reread my letter and make more notes, before I recheck the garden camera to see if my hedgehog had reappeared, it had not. By now I am feeling quite rough again. I re-site the garden camera in the front garden. I am interested to see what roams at the front of the house. The evening creeps up on me so I retreat to football and Shetland. By the end of the evening I’m spent so I down my evening meds and go off to bed hoping that I will have a decent nights sleep. I’m tired of being tired.

Tuesday and I had a crap night. My response to my injection this month has been to turn me into a shaky junkie. A wake up in the spare room feeling shit. I have no energy and my body aches all over. I feel so crap I do a COVID rapid flow test (remember them?). Its negative, so this is my injection reaction. I get some breakfast and then try to read for a while. I retreat to the garden swing seat to try and relax. It doesn’t work so I have a soup lunch and go to the Shed. I need to do something different. I decide to daube. I have some old acrylics and some boards so I spend time pushing paint around. I have no talent in this area but the process is relaxing. Here are my daubing’s;

They do not have tittles; I have no idea what they represent other than my need to push paint around and think of nothing else. I pack away my materials and return to the house. I go for a nap and take more paracetamol. A friend calls and chats for a while before I go back downstairs and watch football, eat tea, watch Ridley and then draft the blog. I have no energy at all, I am spoonless and go to my bed full of meds, more paracetamol and hoping for a night of deep sleep.

Monday, and I am brought a drink in bed and my phone at 7:45 so that I can ring the GP to get an appointment for my injection. As the system was down on my past appointment, I was unable to book then and I had to remember to book later. I didn’t, hence my early morning drink and phone delivery. So I spend a lot of minutes redialling the GP number. I eventually get through and plead a bit to good effect. I get an appointment (fitted in) at 10:10am. I get a shower and breakfast before I set out to the surgery. I feel crap as I walk down but I get there and sit patiently in the waiting room. The relief nurse calls me in, and I emphasise the need for slowness of ingress. She is very good and try’s to be as slow as possible. The system is up today so I am able to book the next jab for October.

Back home I settle down with a hot drink and watch the rain start to pour down. Today is a reading day so I settle down to read Before Your Memory Fades. It is the third in a series of books about a cafe where you can go back or forward in time but of course there are rules. The four rules mean that you can’t change anything so the way the stories of those that do decide to go back or forward are crafted are interesting and sensitive to the subtleties of relationships. Apart from reading a letter from a friend and taking in the Tesco delivery I did nothing else all day until the early evening when I completed the book.

It is always lovely to get a proper letter in the post. Today’s letter is very welcome and is well worth the break from the novel to settle down with coffee to read. I am particularly pleased by the fact that the letter is sealed with a wax seal, it reminds me that I am waiting for my new replacement seal ring to arrive. My hands still feel odd without my seal ring, and I miss being able to seal my letters with my own seal. It gets to early evening and I am beginning to feel the effects of my injection. It gets progressively sorer as the day goes on and I feel more and more rough. So as the evening comes I gather up my dwindling energy and start to draft the blog. I shall eat, watch the concluding episode of Capture and go to bed early with my other new book.

Sunday, another lazy start as the dead queen’s body start out to Edinburgh. A bacon sandwich for breakfast and I sort out my meds for the next two weeks. I watch a bit of the dead queen’s progress until my partner goes to the gym. I head into the garden and spend time tidying up my compost corner and loping some of the lower branches of the larger Acer tree at the end of the garden. Job done I watch a rugby match on TV and then settle down to read. My sister sent me a collection of love poems some time ago and I had not had a chance to read it, so today was the day.

The family eat tea and settle into the evening. I check my diary to see what time my injection is tomorrow and find I have not booked it. The GP surgery appears to be unable to book from month to month when the nurse goes on leave so its left to the punter (me in this instance) to remember to ring up and book it. I forgot. Unconscious avoidance or stupidity? I will never know but it does mean I am going to have to spend tomorrow morning on the phone to arrange it as soon as possible. A real pain especially as I have already started to take my prophylactic paracetamol. So it will be an early night for me.

Saturday and a lazy start made good by a bacon sandwich. Watched the king proclamations and observed the pageantry. I have to say we do the ceremony stuff really well. Having had my fill of this historic moment my partner and I go food shopping. Our usual fruit adn veg guy at the harden centre was chirpy and chatty as usual. He confided with us that he had no cauliflowers as they were charging £3 a cauli at the market. He thought outrageous and knew no one would pay that kind of money for their veg. We of course agreed and concurred with his outrage. Back home we unloaded the bags and headed off to the alternative garden centre fondly know to us as “Hagrid’s”. There was very little available on the shelves when we wandered around looking for possible additions to our garden for next year. In the end we buy to bags of daffodil bulbs and head home.

Lunch is very welcome and I settle down to watch the first rugby match of the season. My team Leicester Tigers, last years champions manage to lose the game to a last second try. It could be a difficult season. I meander towards tea and a lazy evening content to be resting. Tomorrow starts my prophylactic paracetamol regime before Monday’s injection. On these weekends I am not well motivated to train, and I am content to try and restart yet again on Monday to get back to an exercise regime. So, for now it’s night meds and bed.

Friday, Queen still dead. Toast and coffee with my meds, News is all dead monarch. I retreat to the Shed and spend the morning trying to recreate my own version of Alistair Cooke’s Letter from America. The IT will not play ball but in the end I get there. Its then a case of packaging it and getting it to the post office. The post person processes my padded envelope adn then drops in that I might be lucky. How come I ask. He then points out to me that as the Queen has died the post workers have abandoned their planned strike today so if I am lucky, they might actually pick it up today. He did not seem confident.

I return home and indulge in tomato soup while my partner gets ready to go and visit her mother. The moment she is out of the door I am a whirlwind of domestic cleanliness. My first task is to vacuum the Shed. For the first time in years the Shed gets cleaned up and finally looks reasonable. Then it’s on to the house. I am a blur of hoovering, dusting and shining. I empty bins and put clothes away. The real test was when I tried to finally get rid of the wad of bubble wrap that had been stuck in the bottom of our wheelie bin for ages. I get it out to discover a filthy, rancid sea of yuk at the bottom of the bin, Nothing for it but to clean the wheelie bin out. A lot of hot water, bleach and brushing finally got it clean. Not my favourite job. I go back to doing the house. The garden guy arrives and I feed him coffee and continue to busy myself with the cleaning. My final task is to throw yet more paperwork away, which leads me to write a quick letter and return a document. By now it is throwing it down and the gardener has left out of self-defence.

By now I am tired and return to the house to finish up tidying before my partner returns. We settle down to tea after watching the new king give his first national broadcast. I start to draft the blog as we decide how the evening will go. No football or rugby tonight due to the Queens death and no football over the weekend. Lots of reading time is my thought.