From yesterdays nine-point-something miles today I am reduced to hobbling around the house. Going upstairs takes considerable energy: not only am I very tired but my thighs are complaining and the muscles at the top of my right foot are refusing to co-operate. Incidentally, do all houses have thirteen stairs between one floor and the next? It seems to be a general rule but surely it must vary depending on the size of the house and the height of the ceilings? This reminds me of a tumbleweed moment in ‘Ever-Decreasing Circles’ where Ann, searching desperately for something to say as Martin clumps audibly upstairs, says ‘thirteen stairs we’ve got.’ It’s the kind of thing you have to be moving in ever-decreasing circles even to think about (unless you’re a builder, which makes me wonder how they do stairs: do they start at the top and work down or the other way round?)
I can’t find that particular scene but here’s a random episode:
It’s an odd thing but just when I think I’ve forgotten about it, that series comes back again. It’s as if I’ll never get free of it… where was I? Oh yes, hobbling around. It can be quite refreshing just to hobble for a day or two; it’s a bit like enforced pottering, and I’m all in favour of pottering. It’s becoming a lost art.
I managed to hobble out to the garden and pick the tomatoes:
There were so many today that I’ve made soup. It was delicious.
Kirk out
Sarada Gray 