All our tomorrows

Wednesday June 28, 2006

It took me an age to get going this morning and it wasn’t until I was half-way along the road to Bridgwater that I understood why. There I was, driving through some of the loveliest scenery in Somerset, and I was viewing it through a grey veil of ill-humour. I’d woken tired, creaky, bleary-eyed and bad tempered, and stayed that way.

What I should have done would have been to lie there for a few minutes, taking stock and listening to my body, recognized the symptoms, and turned over for a good long sleep in. I’d have been fine then and, when I eventually woke, might easily have got something done.

I fear that I’ve been keeping myself too busy to listen to my body much this past week, though, and this morning I hadn’t listened at all. So, when I got to the house, fixed coffee—I must get a cheap coffee maker so’s I don’t have to drink instant—and taken my lunch of Greek salad, olive bread and oranges, I really, really didn’t want to do anything more than curl up and sleep.

I’d planned to start washing down the kitchen walls with sugar soap preparatory to painting them but all I wanted was sleep. So, untypically giving way to wisdom rather than stubbornly sticking with wilfullness, I packed up and came back to the caravan, leaving the sugar soap safe and unopened under the kitchen sink.

“I’m sorry about this,” I said. “I know I’m a silly old man but I truly didn’t feel up to it today.”

“You’d only be silly if you didn’t recognize when you’re not up to it. You did the right thing.”

“Hmmmph,” I said, grumpily. “I hate it when you are right. And wise.”

The grumpiness had gone when I woke from a good long siesta, stretching right into the early evening, and I shed the last of the ill-humour as I walked up to the bar.

“And what is your pleasure this evening, Sir?” asked Graham, brightly.

“I want a pint of ice-cold beer and a small bowl of chips and gravy.”

“You’ll have to make do with vinegar. They don’t do chips and gravy in Somerset.”

“Ah well. There’s no such thing as the absolutely perfect place. They don’t know how to make proper gravy anyway.”

“If we’re honest about it they don’t know how to make proper chips, either.”

Ah well. The chips were reasonable enough and the combination of carbohydrates, starch and salt lifted my spirits all the way back to where they like to be. I’ll not claim there was a spring in my step as I walked back to the caravan but the dreary slouch had gone away.

And that was it for the day. It’ll be better tomorrow. Thank heavens for our tomorrows.

 

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