Today should have been a lot more relaxing than it was.
I think I have worked myself up into a state of anxiety about my impending departure for the prison service. It is no longer a distant spot on the horizon, but is lurching ominously closer with every passing day.
My imagination has taken me as far as the starting date. Somehow I am finding it impossible to conceive that in a couple of weeks’ time, I will be away from home. I will be living in a camper van, by myself, miles away, not just for a few days, but for ever, or at least for the rest of my working life, or more likely until I get sick of it.
In a couple more weeks I won’t be here.
I will be at Haverigg Prison, in Millom.
This occurred to me when I looked at the hyacinth pots on my way in to the house last night.
I will not be here to see them, unless they bloom, very conveniently, on the dot of my prison service leave. This could actually be at any time, the woman answering their telephone assured me categorically that they did not stop the course for a Christmas holiday until 27th December.
I did not believe this for a minute. All the same, I have got a lot of things to do before I start.
I did not sleep at all last night, but paced, anxiously, until morning, occasionally stopping to envy Mark’s peaceful snores coming from the bedroom.
It seemed like a very long night.
When morning came I was cold and gritty-eyed, but not sleepy.
Mark made coffee, and then we had to rush anyway.
Today we had booked a massage and Spa Day in Bowness.
We have done these a couple of times before, and usually enjoy them very much. We have had the voucher for this one for absolutely ages, it was a present long ago, and I have hoarded it as something nice to happen should times become grim.
It occurred to me a couple of days ago that there would be no more spare days for having an off-peak massage, and that if we wanted to do it without having children needing to be fed and cared for in our absence, we had jolly well better get on with it.
Haverigg Prison is situated in a part of Cumbria which is beautiful, but shockingly poor. There are no expensive health spas there.
We needed to do it now.
We rushed round, collecting bags and apologising to the dogs, and hurried down to Bowness, where we almost made ourselves late because of the difficulties of parking when you are not just going to sit in your parked car and wait for customers to turn up.
Of course the massage was splendid.
A youthful enthusiast covered herself in oil up to her elbows and set about rubbing the lumpy bits out of my back.
I cannot begin to imagine what makes people choose ‘masseur’ as a career option.
She smoothed and rubbed and pummelled until my fat wobbled, pinkly, under her determined assault.
Imagine getting up every morning and knowing that what lay in front of you for the rest of your working life was thousands of elderly fat people with flabby backs and backache brought on by being too portly.
I would not want to get past the coffee.
We had arranged a foot massage to go with it.
This last was quite surprisingly enjoyable as well.
My feet have become increasingly claw-like as I have grown older. Summers spent either barefoot or clad only in flip-flops have left my feet wide and flat, and covered in a protective shell of horny skin. The enthusiastic lady scrubbed at this today, using some preparation which seemed to be made out of a mixture of baby lotion and sand, without much success.
Despite being ineffectual, it was very pleasant, especially the hot-flannel rub at the end.
We staggered out of our treatment rooms afterwards, oily and aching, and were given a restorative cup of green tea. I might add that this was utterly revolting, like drinking grass clippings, if anybody offers you some, don’t bother.
We sat quietly until our newly-bashed muscles calmed down, and then finished our excursion off with afternoon tea, looking out at the lake.
We went home, where I slept as though my green tea had been spiked, until in the end we had to get up for work.
I still haven’t taken a photograph.
Have a picture of the lake.
