(no subject)
Thursday, September 29th, 2022 08:08 pmWas rooting about the mudroom the other day in search of something I won't find until I cease to need it, when I glanced at my bikes and thought Wonder if I can get my leg over the bar now? Tried and couldn't. Well, what about the smaller one? Tried and... couldn't. This left me disheartened, because it seems I'll never bicycle again and never walk unassisted again and oh woe is me might as well move into assisted living now.
Today I was going to hang some clothes on the line-- the window for which BTW is closing rapidly: if you don't get them there before 10 they won't be dry by 4. They promised us a warm fall which so far is not happening: highs are in the normal mid-teens which doesn't warm the house or dry the laundry. And I thought let's just try the bike, and this time I got my leg over the bar no problem. I'm still wobbly doing it and wouldn't dare trying to actually ride it, but still. Progress of a sort. But really, everyone was all about getting your range of motion back and nobody said a word about being steady on your feet. Certainly in the spring I was unable to stand on the scale because it wobbled and now I can. But sheesh, that took six months??! Equally, in the spring I could walk without the rollator for short distances but now muscles cramp constantly and I daren't let go.
Picked up a P.D. James from a Wee Free earlier this week when I was dining out and forgot to bring a book. Began reading and thought 'actually this isn't bad' and then my hamburger arrived. Picked it up today and within a page there she was again, burbling on for paragraphs and paragraphs about the beautiful proportions of the rooms in a Georgian house. Back to G. Mitchell who is currently burbling about Edinburgh. I can stand her geography porn much better than James' architecture porn because Mitchell's geography doesn't involve moral judgments, while James' architecture certainly does. In James, spoiling the lines of a drawing room by making a huge space into something more efficient is a crime worse than either murder or incest.
Mind, Mitchell occasionally prattles on, giving you information (like who is sitting where in relationship to whom at a dinner party) that actually has no bearing on the case in hand. Actually that dinner party happened before there was a case at all, and the whole set-up was one grand red herring.
Today I was going to hang some clothes on the line-- the window for which BTW is closing rapidly: if you don't get them there before 10 they won't be dry by 4. They promised us a warm fall which so far is not happening: highs are in the normal mid-teens which doesn't warm the house or dry the laundry. And I thought let's just try the bike, and this time I got my leg over the bar no problem. I'm still wobbly doing it and wouldn't dare trying to actually ride it, but still. Progress of a sort. But really, everyone was all about getting your range of motion back and nobody said a word about being steady on your feet. Certainly in the spring I was unable to stand on the scale because it wobbled and now I can. But sheesh, that took six months??! Equally, in the spring I could walk without the rollator for short distances but now muscles cramp constantly and I daren't let go.
Picked up a P.D. James from a Wee Free earlier this week when I was dining out and forgot to bring a book. Began reading and thought 'actually this isn't bad' and then my hamburger arrived. Picked it up today and within a page there she was again, burbling on for paragraphs and paragraphs about the beautiful proportions of the rooms in a Georgian house. Back to G. Mitchell who is currently burbling about Edinburgh. I can stand her geography porn much better than James' architecture porn because Mitchell's geography doesn't involve moral judgments, while James' architecture certainly does. In James, spoiling the lines of a drawing room by making a huge space into something more efficient is a crime worse than either murder or incest.
Mind, Mitchell occasionally prattles on, giving you information (like who is sitting where in relationship to whom at a dinner party) that actually has no bearing on the case in hand. Actually that dinner party happened before there was a case at all, and the whole set-up was one grand red herring.
