MY ankle is still a bit tender. I am having to walk slowly and carefully and concentrate on driving in order to reduce the need for use of the clutch. It’s strange how a single joint can make such a difference to your life. As I re-read that sentence, I realise what a complex language English is. It sounds like I’m confessing to cannabis use. Or I might just be talking about a piece of roasted meat, a place where electrical wires meet, ditto for water or gas pipes. I may even, if I were Raymond Chandler, use the word in relation to an establishment offering hospitality. I think that’s about it.
Why, I have to ask, do we make one word do so much when we appear to have other words, like “engative” that seem perfectly good words in search of a meaning.
Anyway, back to ankles. I went to work this morning with the intention of asking the owner to walk to the Post Office this afternoon because my ankle didn’t feel up to it. Unfortunately , he called in sick shortly after I got there as he has a cold and wants to try not to spread it. Seemed like a good idea, as I have enough problems without a cold.
I still can’t, for instance, get into my Open Learn Account, and I’m still waiting for Julia’s Christmas presents to arrive. It’s not serious, but it is irritating. IT’s also irritating when you limp across to the Post Office and find a note on the door saying “Back in Five Minutes”. They weren’t. We all, when running shops on our own, have to do things like use the toilet, so we stick signs on the door. I appreciate that. I do however think that a proper note should say when you will be back. We waited in the rain for longer than five minutes (I had no choice – we need to get the parcels off as the Post Office no longer opens on Saturdays). As soon as the door was opened I charged in, making sure nobody could get past me. It’s a good thing I did, because having handed over my three parcels I noted there were eight people in the queue behind me. Eight!
I slowed down as I walked back as knee and ankle started to protest and on the second part of the crossing – the bit with the slope and adverse camber – I was so slow that the lights changed while I was still crossing. I really am going to have to address the weight question and relieve some pressure on my joints. I suppose a future full of salad beckons…
Compared to getting run over, I suppose salad isn’t too bad.
The tranquil pond is meant to calm my panic at the thought of a lifetime of salad. Tranquil stained glass – ditto.
Stained Glass from Ely
Two excellent photographs and a most impressive charge. One of my admin staff made me a cardboard clock with moveable hands to save me always writing out a note for my door saying when I would be free.
That’s a good idea. Fortunately there are normally two or three of us in the shop.
I enjoy salad but I don’t really see it as a winter option!
I have been known to enjoy it once in a while but I see alot of it in my future and it is not a cheering thought…
Dieting is no fun.
True. But neither is limping…
Yup.
🙂
There are worse things in life than salad, Quercus. Cheese, sardines, and even tuna sound like a good idea to add to a nice dark greens salad.
I hate to say this, because I know Tootlepedal loves them, but as soon as I saw “sardines” I thought “Yes, they are worse than salad.” 🙂
Rick and I love sardines. 🙂
I have always had a fear of fishbones, and when I was about 12 I confirmed my fears by eating a fishcake and ramming a piece of bone between my gum and tooth root. It was unpleasant.
You can always sneak a sardine or some cheese into a salad when no one is looking.
I was once involved in a scheme where people rang me up every week to see what I was eating. The words “cheese sandwich” was always met by a sharp intake of breath from the other end of the phone. I hate to think what nutritionists actually live on.
If they are sort who make a fortune by peddling quack remedies and pills, millionaire’s shortbread I should think. If they are serious professionals, a well balanced diet with plenty of exercise.
The stories I could tell. One NHS nutritionist recommended eating earlier in the evening, which, they suggested, meant I should stop cooking from fresh ingredients and start using ready meals.
Hmm. Not advice that I might take.
I wasn’t keen. She made it worse by telling me that if her husband didn’t have a meal on the table when he came back from work she was in trouble. I felt like I’d stepped back to the 1950s.