Wednesday March 16, 2005
Not a good day. The sun went in and seems to have taken my spirits with it. I was awfully silly on my trip to Spilsby, deciding just for once to manage without my walking stick. It was fine on the first trip, to the doctor’s and back to the car. If I’d given in then and picked the stick up for the next trip, to the supermarket, I would probably have been ok. Tired, but ok. Instead I wandered off stickless and, by the time I was on the way back to the car, I was completely and absolutely knackered. My back was aching, my legs were going nerve-dead, and every last bit of energy in me was drained.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. I can walk a good distance with my stick, using it to take the strain up and down steps and, as I walk, to help keep the load off my back. And to make me feel secure on my feet, too, which is important as an aid to muscle movement without tension.
When I got home, then, I was not in good shape.
“What the hell have you been up to?” Graham asked, paintbrush in hand. And, when I told him, “Well, you’ve no-one to blame but yourself.”
“I wouldn’t dream of blaming anyone but myself.”
“Yeah. I know. Go and sit down, I’ll bring you a cuppa and, if you don’t recover quick as quick you can toddle off to bed.”
Which is what I did.
The rest of the day has been spent in recovery, leaving everything undone. Looking back over this, I pick out the words ‘silly’ and ‘stupid’ and that’s the truth of it. I don’t blame anyone but myself, and I take full responsibility for my foolishness.
Though I can’t help but wonder if a bit of sunshine might have made things better. And doing my daily postcard painting before I went out would have been a good idea, too. At least then I’d have something to show for the day.
Note, written the following day: I should perhaps say before anyone gets worried that I’m fully recovered today and raring to go once more. When keeping a journal, I believe in recording the very few bad days honestly. Like Cromwell, warts and all.