I complained so much about my aching muscles this morning that Number One Son-In-Law said that I had better have a day off from my exercise project.
I was so unbelievably relieved about this I could hardly find the words to agree to it.
I had woken up from an uncomfortable sleep barely able to totter to the bathroom: and getting my calf muscles to extend themselves enough to go for a walk might have been easier after half an hour on a medieval rack.
Nevertheless I am determined to defeat my natural tendency to be blubbery and idle, and so once Mark had gone off to work I hauled myself up the fell side with a grim determination, followed by the reluctant dogs, who are also beginning to suffer from exercise-overload.
It was a beautiful day, white frost glittering on the fields and the sun warm on my shoulders. The birds were in full riotous voice, so much so that I could actually hear them over the deafening racket of my thundering heartbeat and stertorous breathing as I slogged up the hill.
I got to the top and sat down heavily on the cairn, which was when the text from Number One Son-In-Law arrived. The dogs collapsed gratefully next to me with their tongues hanging out and their chests heaving.
This was because when Mark came with me he had the bright idea that we ended the climb with a run up the last stretch to the summit, which is absolutely horrid, and I have been obliged to do this ever since. Of course if I skipped this bit then he would be better at it than me, which would never do at all.
This morning I gritted my teeth and forced myself to do it, even though Mark was not there and would never have known if I had not bothered. This sort of thinking is important if you want to be a morally superior person.
I sat there for a few minutes and looked at Cumbria stretching out to the sea in the bright sunshine. Then I thought how jolly fortunate I was, and set off back along the mossy sheep track.
When I got home and had finished all of my morning housework I ate a newly healthy breakfast. Lately I have found myself desperate to eat fruit, possibly because of a general end-of-winter deficiency in Vitamin C. Of course because I am elderly this gives me tiresome bursts of acidic windiness. To combat this I have obtained a recipe from Number One Daughter, who knows about healthy food.
You liquidise banana, blueberries, spinach and coconut milk together until it looks like the contents of a new baby’s nappy, and eat that. I added some mango yoghurt, because of it being reduced in Sainsbury’s. This did not help the appearance but it did taste jolly good. Then I realised that I was shivering and yawning, and retired to bed.
I had somehow got so terribly cold that I could not warm up at all, and lay there for ages, too frozen to sleep. I missed Mark, who is like a human nuclear reactor when he is asleep, radiating such splendid blasts of heat that he is almost oblivious to my icy toes.
I was so cold that I almost invited the dogs to come and join me, but there are worse things than being cold. In any case, although Roger Poopy would have been happy to oblige, his father is so stiff and exhausted from our morning excursions that he can barely struggle up the stairs any more, and getting on the bed is completely out of the question.
By the time I woke up the washing had dried on the line outside, and I felt recovered. Not only that, but I had the joyful knowledge that I did not have to go to the gym, and that my day’s efforts were concluded.
I should have gone for a gentle swim, but I didn’t.
I made some more baby-poo dinner and went to sit quietly on the taxi rank with a good book.
Tomorrow is another day.
