Grey days with wind-lashed rain beating its presence on the windowpane; the outlook is grim. Pick up a book to browse, turn on the radio and, all too soon I become restless. For these past dew days, the assemblage of familiar numbing pains and nagging aches are all that have prevented me from sleeping the time away.
Thoughts of an impending journey, a mere two and a bit hours of chauffeuse driven motoring, fill me with a sense of doom; even at the best of times I’m not too fond of travelling but, in my current state of dis-ease, the prospect is even more worrying.
The arrival at any destination always seems long overdue but, the sense of relief is overshadowed by the prospect of the return journey. The arrival back home is always the best part of the experience when, once more, my breathing permits itself to return to a more normal pattern.
By writing this down I hoped to disclose the irrationality of my dread but, instead, it only serves to reaffirm that nature never intended me to be a nomad. These days, the prospect of any journey of more than a few miles duration requires several pre-emptive visits to the loo; a somewhat spastic colon and a non-retentive bladder are never ideal travelling companions.
This doesn’t just sound like self-pity, it is the genuine article. Any minor deviation from my normal home-centric regime seems like the most perverse obstacle course has been placed in my path. I award myself the gold-medal for wimpishness, no-one is more entitled to such a prize.
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Mal's Murmurings talks about PRIVILEGE
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