The hounds of whatever

Tuesday March 8, 2005

You have good days, you have bad days. Especially as you grow older. The trick is to learn to live with the bad ‘uns and, when the good ‘uns come along, grab them by the tail and run as though the hounds of whatever are on your traces.

Well, today didn’t start out good, and there was no running. I did not feel on top form, not at all. Not bad, exactly, just off colour, no appetite and out of sorts. I gave myself the once-over: heart, lungs, eyes, tongue, internals… nothing much wrong there. My food and drink intake these past few days has been quite sensible. So I sighed and put it down to a glitch in the normal chemical mix. And resolved to take a dose of salts before I went to bed tonight, just in case.

I sighed again, more for effect this time than out of real need.

“Wassamatta?” asked old radar-bonce.

“Oh, nothing. Just feeling yuck.”

“What are you going to do about it?”

“I think I’ll go give Dolly a cuddle on the bed.”

Dolly was pleasantly surprised. I don’t often snuggle up in the mornings, so she took it as a bonus, turned over on her back and presented her tummy for a tickle, feet firmly in the air. Her way of grabbing the moment by the tail, I suppose.

I dozed fitfully and uncomfortably at first and then fell into a deep, heavy sleep. Graham came along with a mug of coffee about two-thirty in the afternoon.

“Come on, you, time to be stirring.”

I looked at my bedside clock. “Oh, dear,” I said. “It’s way past lunch. You must be starving.”

“So must you. You didn’t have any breakfast again today. How are you feeling now?”

“Well I was feeling yuck. Now I feel heavy and yuck.”

“A bite of something would be a good idea, probably.”

When I sat down to my sandwich I really didn’t fancy it. Or anything. I munched into it, though, out of duty, and suddenly the juices started to flow. By the time I’d finished, I was bubbling happily.

“Well I’m blowed,” I said. “Who’d have thought a bit of food was all I needed.”

“Told you so.”

“Don’t you start down that road with me, chookie-boots, or I’ll bite yer nose off.”

“Hah. Like to see you try.”

Shortly after, I was running as though the hounds of whatever were on my traces.

 


Stickford, Mar 8,'05
‘Postcards from my head’ No. 3
Heavy skies don’t work on cheap glossy card.


 

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