Friday 26 August 2022

Crazy Train


Out of touch with the bed-time weather watch, start early at 5am in lashing rain. Running round the garden in PJs in the pishing rain, regret the volume and assortment of patio cushions and throws that I a) own and b) have left out. Opted to avoid the Tetris game to get big wet things in the not quite big enough cushion box, so just threw them in the door. Back in bed, dreamed of dining room dramas in a damp cushion shop.  Awake for the second time I  prepped for work by stalking t’net for wedding pix of my friend’s daughter. She totally nailed that beautiful bridal look.


To the hospital for yet another post-cancer check. My life-saving surgery left a mutilated mess, that due to Covid and other waiting list pressures took four years to resolve. Was relieved that my recent MRI shows all is well: the implant is not leaking, just my body pushing back agin the alien invasion.


To the South Bank for a work white-board sesh. Can’t complain about travelling South when my lovely colleague was schleping from Wales. In the muggy weather I ditched travel trainers and opted for sandals. A tap dancer preacher sharing notions of peace, love and harmony serenaded my Piccadilly Line trip, but redeemed himself by calling me ‘his queen’. Footwear error materialised as a tourist’s oversized suitcase spun out of control and caught my almost bare foot as I changed lines. Limped to the Northern Line which was working overdrive in the heat, with a brain-splitting racket, only a fraction more jarring than tap shoes, and with a lot less rhythm.  A walk along a corridor, downstairs, up some other stairs, around a corner and into a lift - a quick and easy station exit does not make. Mixing with work mates is lush and productive n’all that, but the sweat box office and missed connections home add to why I prefer watering the allotment to commuting. Inspired by feedback on the blog, spend the evening on the old cliché collection that is my oeuvre.  Don’t think Alan Bennett need worry.


A thunderstorm woke me. Two cushions left in the garden last night, were left to drown as the dining room remains a dank cushion emporium. Welcomed the lack of watering now needed at the crispy patch, especially in this latest hose-pipe ban. When it dried out long enough to do some harvesting I thought it's a great year for blackberries, tomatoes and spuds. No clue what's happened to the courgettes, squashes and pumpkins. Spied a fox carrying a single shoe across the lottie. Wonder at the symbolism but then raced to pick up the boy’s car. It’s a manual. I’m out of practice with the gear things. Think his little black insurance box may just have got his worst score ever.


Wake. Write my journal. Drink a pint of water. March for 30 minutes and start the step count towards 10k, ablutions, laundry, dishwasher, wordle and still at my home desk by 9.05am. At lunchtime I think about practising mindfulness and gratitude, but wonder instead why I put obstacles to time wasting in my day. Think about 5 portions of home grown freshly harvested veg and fruit, but opt for more deliciously unhealthy munch.

Making plans for the long weekend, am inspired by Alan Bennet’s diaries, where, if only for the sake of his diary, he records his visits to tiny churches. This weekend Britain’s biggest SciFiFan and I will explore more of London’s markets, as Churches aren't our thing. And there's not too many lighthouses in London, as diarised by another author. We’ve rejected Portobello as the Notting Hill Carnival is on. And although I am seeking thrills/looking for blog fodder, the crowds are likely just too much.

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