I’m feeling about as much fun as a wet weekend at a Bognor Regis bus stop. Not that I’ve ever waited at one (should I have unwittingly ‘hit’ on that place that holds significant sentimental value for you). In fact, I guess that the past few weeks haven’t been much better. So rather than waiting to get my pizzazz back, I’m stuck with this version of myself and so, my dear reader, might you be too!
Looking back over the past few weeks, I’m trying hard to work out why everything that I do feels like wading through treacle. The pain is harder to deal with than usual and I’m frequently having to resort to the easiest of distractions in order to manage it all with some degree of skill.
Cat’s Protection, bless them, have agreed to take in my stray feline friend. I’ve been looking out for him since he was abandoned by neighbours. Over the past 9 months, Patch has slowly changed from a confused and unkempt creature running scared from everyone; emerging as a vocal, affectionate animal who has somehow become a lot more attractive. He waits out back for whatever fuss and hugs are available, even when hungry, tucking his face into the crook of my arm and lying still with his eyes closed for as long as possible. His behaviour is adorable and heart-breaking in equal measure; a reminder of a need shared by most living, breathing creatures (let alone the troublesome two-legged variety) and how transformative a bit of the ubiquitous ‘L’ word can be.
Then there’s the window seat that has slowly taken shape in the bay window, thanks to considerable help from a talented friend who trained as a carpenter in his homeland of Switzerland. He has been a gem, each winter helping me move forward, bit by bit with my house; a building that seems to require an endless list of tasks to be completed and decisions to be made.
Whilst the concentration required to watch evening TV has abandoned me, hour-long programmes have been replaced by snippets of this and that on youTube, watched from the hot-water-bottled comfort of bed. Still thrilled to bits by the ability of smartphones to take care of so many of our needs, I’ve lately been revelling in the opportunity to take virtual tours around small living spaces, made popular through the ‘Tiny House’ movement. It is as if there are two versions of me in my head that have to negotiate with each other in the fashion of:
“Hey, wouldn’t it be wonderful to be able to build THIS house?”
“You must be joking! Haven’t you been paying attention? Wasn’t building a window seat difficult enough?”
“Okay,” (pouting) “Just dreaming. Imagining doing fun things has to be a good thing, doesn’t it?”
“Time is too precious to be wasted on something so laughably unlikely matey. Sulk all you like.”
“So why are you bothering to follow all these small house building projects? Or rock climbers striving to overcome the impossible? Or the same old tear-jerking auditions for X-factor and The Voice for that matter?”
“Oh well, I suppose I’m just pretending that if I was still okay, they’re the things I’d like to be doing. Bettering myself, you know? I do enjoy being inspired!”
“You mean, you’re dreaming?”
“Hmfff.”
The window seat has taken weeks to complete, an hour or so at a time, with obligatory days off to recover, more in the manner of exploratory trips up and down Everest. It’s an odd duality of experience when you physically feel like the wrappings discarded from a fish and chip supper; where each measurement made, cut of wood or drilled hole is just one task too far. Yet a part of you is in ecstasy, knowing that this is JUST what you’re needing; a meaningful form of distraction. With continual guidance and virtually no skill on my part, it’s completed, with just a coat of varnish to finish it off. And I’m delighted, knowing full well that when this becomes a memory, I will only recall the good times. Funny that!
I think I may have stumbled on the answer as to why I’m not doing so well lately. It’s a vicious cycle literally! Colder darker nights means less cycling means more pain, means mobilising later in the day, means shorter rides as it gets dark, And round and round it goes. Time to get back to the gym. Please note, there is a matter of irony here. I need to cycle to manage pain and only require time on the gym exercise cycles (oodles of experience on these), not the rest of the equipment. But gyms get nervous when people with disabilities want to join, so require a special referral through a GP. In my case, it’s simply because I have to use my bike as a mobility aid to access the facilities. Organising this is complicated and time-consuming, so leaves me unable to use the gym until halfway through winter. It’s a farce, like so many things in our unfathomable, up-side-down society.
The café is a no go tonight. Migraines and loud music don’t mix very well. However, you don’t get the luxury of a friend’s comfy settee and being warmed by a paraffin heater at cafés. Nor are you treated to delicious Lebanese takeaways by someone who is eager to read the next intrepid blog instalment. I truly hope it’s worth it.
“How many people are waiting for this?” he asks.
“At least 10 of you” I reply. “Besides, it’s not how many get to read it, it’s about being in the right headspace when you’re writing it and not forcing things. And if it makes just one person feel better, doesn’t that justify the whole process?” I offer this up, acutely aware that some friends are reaching thousands on social media. And that much of the benefit is being felt by yours truly.
“Coming to the aid of just one person is much better than feeling useless”, he agrees, leaving unspoken truths to sit comfortably between us. “Here, have some more olives.”
“A person is a fool to become a writer. His only compensation is absolute freedom. He has no master except his own soul, and that, I am sure, is why he does it.”
– Roald Dahl
“There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.”
– Ernest Hemingway
