Friday April 1, 2005
“Is there anything more than this to left sell on eBay?” I asked, holding up a blue-and-white teapot and one small Carlton Ware dish.
“I don’t think so. The garage is clear now. There might be some odd bits left in the loft but I doubt it.”
“You said it, buster. You’ve done good there.”
“Thank you. I’ll put these two up tomorrow night and then I can put the eBay job on hold until we’ve moved. That’ll be one less thing to think about.”
“What shall you do then?”
“You mean apart from selling the house and researching possible alternative destinations?”
“Yeah. Apart from that.”
“Oh, I think I’ll get me bike out, and other than that pick up the painting again.”
“Good. I’ll pump your tyres up for you when I’ve got a minute.”
The bike stayed in the garage today, though, because it was time for a full-scale assault on Boston, or so it seemed. I was on my feet for almost four hours in all, apart from rests now and then. And, as it turned out, there weren’t really enough rests.
I did fine in the town itself, though I caught myself limping rather heavily at one point. I didn’t do too bad in the garden centre, either. By the time we hit Tesco’s though, the reason for the limp became apparent as my leg left died on me, turning into a great useless slab of dead meat needing to be dragged about rather than assisting in propulsion. Mustn’t grumble, because it’s a long time since that happened but even so, by the time I’d filled the trolley, I was in real trouble.
And when eventually we got back to the car I excused myself from packing and flopped in my driver’s seat, completely whacked.
“I’ll need to rest for a few minutes, if you don’t mind.”
“Don’t be silly. Tell you what, I need a new three-inch paint brush for the external woodwork so I’ll trot over and get one while you’re recovering.”
To be absolutely honest, I felt just a little bit down about it. You do your best to put a brave face on these things but now and again, try as you may, the miseries pay a visit.
By the time Graham got back with his new paint brush I was fit to drive, and by the time we got home, most of the pain had subsided. I went to sit outside the kitchen door to enjoy the last of the sunshine and get some fresh air into my lungs, and that acted as a tonic, as did the big mug of steaming coffee I downed shortly afterwards. So the episode was soon forgot.
Except, it must have been preying on my mind, because later in the evening I piped up, mouth engaged before brain was fully in gear: “What shall I do if it gets so bad I can’t walk anymore?”
“You carry on walking best you can, of course.”
I thought for a moment. “Yes, you’re right,” I said. “That’s exactly what I must do.”
“Right. People have been getting wonky legs and stuff since time began. Nothing new in it.”
And there isn’t, of course, unless I care to take a sour note and point out that it’s new for me. I’m not inclined to be sour about it, though, even if I do need, and seek, a good kick up the backside now and then when the miseries come a’calling.
So, I did the big sigh thing, pulled out my paintbox and brushes, taped a postcard onto my small drawing board, closed my eyes and… out popped another rural cottage scene. Triggered by an isolated house I saw by a small inland loch on Skye, if I have it right. Doesn’t matter, of course. I’m still enjoying doing the postcards, and I confess that my head is filled with similar scenes just now. It’d be rather nice to be out in the fresh air sketching them from life, but for the moment, I’m not inclined to wander far from home. I need to be on hand to make tea and hold things for a little while longer.
|‘Postcards from my head’ No. 11
Still dreaming of cottages