It is very exciting to be in Windermere at the moment.
This is because the newly-refurbished Co-op opens tomorrow.
It has been shut for weeks and weeks, and every now and again interested citizens, amongst whom we are included, have been able, whilst peering curiously through the gap in the shutters, to catch a glimpse of exposed joists and cavernous holes and general scenes of apocalyptic devastation. The floor, which was always interestingly squidgy, has been replaced, the cellar has been dug out, and everything is newly modern and streamlined and illuminated with LED lighting. They have even swept up the cigarette ends from the back door where the staff have their tea breaks.
I shall probably not be visiting tomorrow, because I have spent all of my money today in Asda. This is disappointing but we had become desperate for soap powder and cheese. Since I had to trail all the way out there of course I thought I might as well take advantage of bargain-priced butter and porridge oats and filled the boot of the car. I am broke now.
It was actually an eventful afternoon, because I did the thing I have always thought that I would never, ever do.
Never name that well from which you will not drink.
I went to the cross-fit gym.
This is not because I have suddenly developed an interest in weight-lifting and swinging from trapeze rings, but because of the ever-present troubling spectre of the bleeping test, which is on Monday.
Number One Son-In-Law said that I should practice the turns, and that I should go to the cross-fit gym.
Nowhere has got a fifteen-metre running track. In the end I rang the cross-fit gym this morning, and they hummed and hawed for a bit, and eventually had the brainwave that if I ran diagonally across the gym they could squeeze it in.
When I had finished my morning hike up the fell side I packed up my sports bra and set off.
This might have been a bit reckless.
After last night’s rest I had felt so energetic this morning that I bounded and trotted up the track like a newly-released sheep.
When I got back down everything hurt a bit.
After I had finished heaving the Asda shopping into the boot of the car everything hurt a bit more.
The cross-fit gym people were lovely. There was a smily girl with a small boy on a tricycle, and a bearded chap with so many muscles that he was almost square. They had set out some cones in a diagonal line across the gym, which turned out to be just exactly fifteen metres if I was careful not to run into the wall at the end.
I changed into my sporting underwear and fat-disguising T-shirt.
I jogged up and down the gym until I was warm. Then I jogged up and down the cones a bit more. Then I ran up and down between the cones forty times, which is about what I shall have to do on the bleeping test. I did this three times.
The turns are really hard. You have to slow down and start again every time. Especially I had to slow down in order not to run into the wall in the very small diagonal gym. My knees and ankles started to ache.
The square man had been watching a bit and trying not to look judgemental. He mostly succeeded in this, his true feelings only escaping when I told him that I had got to do the test on Monday, at which point a look of doubtful pessimism crossed his face.
I assured him that I could do it again if I failed, and he said that it would not do any harm to think of it as a practice. Then he showed me the treadmills and said that a good way to practice was to run on a treadmill for a few minutes at high speed, until I was completely exhausted, and then come back into the gym and run up and down between the cones to see how I managed when I was completely breathless.
This was not what Number One Son-In-Law had suggested, but it sounded like a good idea, so I did this as well.
After a while I had to stop before my ankles snapped.
I thanked the friendly square man and staggered back to the car.
When I got home I remembered lots of things that I had to do in the village, like taking Mark’s glasses to be mended and emptying the dogs in the Library Gardens.
I crept around very slowly.
We had planned a night off, because Mark had promised, at the suggestion of Number One Son-In-Law, to massage my legs. Instead of making a picnic I cooked dinner, and was just sinking gratefully into a chair when Mark arrived.
He had filled the trailer with firewood and it needed to be unloaded.
He offered to do it on his own, but of course that would have ruined my character of unassailable virtue.
I tugged my coat and boots back on and hobbled between the trailer and the shed with armloads of wood.
After we had eaten Mark massaged my feet and legs whilst I squeaked like an indignant piglet. The dogs became very upset and tried to rescue me, which was thoughtful but unnecessary. Eventually Roger Poopy realised it was hopeless and stood on his hind legs at the end of the bed, licking my toes consolingly at the most upsetting moments.
I can barely walk now.
I wonder if I ought to consider a job in the Co-op instead.
