I woke up this morning to the shocking experience of my knee not hurting at all.
Somehow, miraculously, it was almost completely pain-free. This was astonishing, considering that it had been hurting so much when I got into bed at the end of last night’s taxi-driving that I couldn’t get to sleep.
Yesterday had been a day of sore-knee misery. The walk up the fell was hard, and I wanted to go to the gym roughly about as much as the dogs ever want to get into the bath. My muscles ached, and my knee hurt, and I felt wearily sorry for myself.
Then this morning it was gone.
It was like having wings.
I practically danced up the fell side, running in little bits and hopping over streams and rocks like Maria in the Sound Of Music, only without all the children and the dramatic soundtrack.
It twinged a little tiny bit on the way down, but only a bit, and it ached a bit afterwards, but nothing like the excruciating stabbing pains that it has been inflicting up until now.
I think it must know that I am having a Day Off.
I have been looking forward to this all week. We have got to collect the children from school tomorrow, and so tonight we are going to pile ourselves into the camper van and drive across. We want to take the camper van with us because we have got to collect Oliver first and then go to a parents’ meeting at Lucy’s school. Oliver will not wish to hear about Lucy’s progress or otherwise in Business Studies, and so we are going to leave him in the camper van, with his computer and the travelling wifi, in order that he can play violently unsuitable games, talk to paedophiles and generally occupy himself contentedly during our absence.
With this in mind I have been indulging in lovely Day Off things. I have not done tiresome chores. I have not packed my gym kit, because I am not going to the gym. I have not made a picnic, because we are going to have leftovers for dinner, and I have done happy things like refill the tin of jelly babies in the camper van.
I have got all of our respectable clothes ready, except for the ones that I somehow couldn’t find, and I ironed the ones that were beginning to look a bit crumpled. I ironed our hankies as well, because they were starting to look a bit sad.
All of our hankies are ones that have been purchased for, and rejected by, Oliver.
Oliver only likes blue silk handkerchiefs with his name embroidered in gold in the corner.
Any other less stylish handkerchief is ignored and rejected out of hand, I have actually seen him wipe his nose on his sleeve rather than use a plain cotton handkerchief, even a blue one.
Hence there is no point in buying handkerchiefs for us when we have got plenty of Oliver’s to use up, and so we have a drawer full of those. Some of these have been used in the meantime for boy practices, like being a bandit’s mask or repository for conkers or mopping up ink. They are functional but not the sort of thing you would like to pull out of the pocket of your dress suit when you are trying to impress somebody.
I chose some respectable handkerchiefs to go with our smart clothes and then got on with painting pictures on the camper van wardrobe door, which you can see at the top. It is not anywhere near finished yet, it is just basically blocked out with its colours, but it is getting there slowly and I think it will probably be nice to look at when we are sitting in bed with our coffee in the mornings.
When I go to Haverigg I will be sitting in bed by myself.
There’s a thought.
Gosh.
