Just where is that
emotional stamina hiding; come to that, it would be useful if I could uncover a
resource for topping up my rather limited levels of the physical variety. After
a short trip across the Pennines , about which
more later, even my already constrained ability to concentrate on any sustained
reading has gone into abeyance. At least I’m hoping it will return! No matter
how much I enjoy looking out onto the garden, the heavily overcast and frequent
rain-sodden days do little for one’s morale.
After a morning of
extremely vividly disconcerting dreams, I finally felt sufficiently alert to
remove myself from the bedclothes at around 11.15am, thirteen hours after
availing myself of their embrace. As my beloved doesn’t go to her place of
employment on a Wednesday it made the rest of the day more bearable. By about
4.30pm I felt it necessary to rest my eyes, at which point ma belle enquired
whether I needed to lay myself down on the sofa. At the time it didn’t really
seem at all necessary but, within half-an-hour my legs began to suffer a dull
throbbing ache, feeling as if they’d been waterlogged.
Finally I had to admit my
OH was right and, I really did need to lie down; no sooner had I reclined, in
supine posture, than my wrists began their far too familiar nagging ache requiring
a swift application of splint supports. Just another ordinary day!
***
Now comes the report on
that trans-Pennine journey, although, in terms of mileage, it was a short drive,
to me the outward journey seemed a far too protracted arduous nightmare.
Spastic colon, and acute diverticular discomfort set the tone of the adventure;
within the parameters of a 70 mile route, I most urgently required a loo break
on three occasions, the first of which required a diversion from the route we were
travelling.
The SatNav redirected us,
via the Old Skipton Road
That evening we attended a
wedding party, the purpose of our visit, at a nearby Jacobean venue. On
arriving at the venue, I managed ( whilst leaving the badly lit car parking
space) to trip on a protruding step as ma belle and I sought the relevant hall
entrance. The entrance was attained via an ill lit awning tent and, once again
I tripped as my foot fell from the edge of the footway.
Not a good start; since my
days as a union steward I’ve been well aware of health and safety issues, and
the ill lit irregular causeway would certainly have been a major concern. As I’m
prone to giddiness, and an associated fear of falling (such that I will only
take a shower when my beloved’s around), I wasn’t able to relax at all.
Inside, the venue was
disconcertingly sprawling and, we failed to find the quieter lounge. We spent best
part of an hour, but seemed much longer, sat at a table in the bar area
chatting with one or two family members. Just the noise of chatter became
overwhelming; part of my illness means that I find it difficult to cope with
crowds or noise so, really, I was in the wrong place. My total alcohol intake
was less than half of the pint of ale I’d imagined I would enjoy.
Ten years on from
succumbing to this condition (moderate Myalgic Encephalomyelitis), it becomes
increasingly hard to understand that I once, not only coped with but, whole
heartedly, enjoyed a quite gregarious lifestyle, pubbing, clubbing, politicking,
wining and dining, leading house groups
and more!
Back at the inn, the
landlady turned down the radiator at our request and supplied us with an
electric fan and opened the skylight, the only window in the room, to allow
some air to circulate. Most of the night was spent restlessly on top of the
bed; music from nearby filled the air until 2.00am after which I became aware
of the swoosh of traffic, presumably from the motorway. Further distraction was
proffered in the form of other guests returning to the inn, as the floorboards
groaned and roared their disapproval of human footfall. A worn out washer on
the hot tap in our en suite, erratically appliquéd a kind of water torture onto
the other aggravating layers of distraction.
Having missed out on food
the night before, I was looking forward to breakfast but even this hope
remained unfulfilled. Still feeling rather stressed, and upset by and
commenting on my trip up experience of the previous evening, I interpreted a
nervous smile from Helen’s brother as a sneer and duly threatened to deck him.
At that point I quit the breakfast room.
Our journey back across
the Pennines was a far happier experience,
travelling predominantly on motorways advocated by the disembodied voice of the
SatNav.
