Saturday December 3, 2005
I was fearful this might happen. I’ve started a severe case of winter shut-in fever. Some call it cabin fever, but that has connotations of rage in it and I don’t do winter rage.
Actually, drama apart, it’s no more than a growing restlessness. Not discontent, but an itch to do something, anything, just so long as it’s new. Something to add a bit of sparkle to the routine.
Not that routine is bad. As you get older, you appreciate the finer points and advantages of routine. More and more, as time goes by, I consign the less interesting parts of my life to the safe arms of routine. Doing the same things the same way. A place for everything and everything in its place. It’s a good thing, so far as I’m concerned, to be able to reach out for a bit of kitchen equipment, for instance, and find it exactly where I expect it to be. The oldster’s comfort blanket, I suppose. In a way.
No, the problem is that I need something new, something different to fill my time. And I’ve run out of ideas.
Sadly, my hands aren’t helping. They’ve decided to go all arthritic and uncooperative on me, and refuse to do anything delicate. Not particularly painful, thank goodness. Just not the sensitive things I’m used to. Can’t even reliably press the shutter button on my camera at present.
Hey ho. At least I’ll not be tempted to undertake a course in petit point. I’ll find something, never fear. Now I’ve recognised what’s wrong, I’m looking actively at my options.
It’s a frustrating thing when your hands won’t do what you want of them, though. This evening, gift wrapping a couple of small presents for Graham’s birthday, tomorrow, I had to give up on the frills and furbelows and resort to plain old parcel wrapping, and none too tidily at that. And my choice of spaghetti for the evening meal was not overly wise, either. You can’t make a neat job of eating spaghetti when that good old reliable twirl of the fork is impossible to achieve. Makes a right mess of a chap’s moustache, does sucking in stray ends of spaghetti.