Sore Feet Monday

I am rather better this evening than I was this morning.

Dearie me, it was hard work swinging my legs over the side of the bed this morning.

I have spent the day minutely inspecting, and telling everybody about, my long-walking ailments. Mark seems to be in rather better state than I am, except for his man-tendon knee, which is not at all happy, apart from which he seems to have survived reasonably intact.

I have not survived the walking ordeal intact. I am still very sorry for myself. My boots have bruised my poor feet dreadfully, and my leg muscles have lost all their firm consistency and become jelly.

It has dawned on me, in a depressed sort of way, that actually I am not very fit at all. In fact  it would appear that I am every bit as fat and lazy as I secretly suspected that I might be.

This is not at all good news, and I have resolved never to mention it to Number One Daughter, who is enthusiastic about drawing up helpful exercise programmes for unfit people. I would prefer to avoid this outcome if at all possible, she has some peculiar ideas about what constitutes gentle exercise.

We crawled into bed last night with the relief of the utterly exhausted, and slept absolutely soundly for eleven hours.  We got up this morning to the ringing laughter of Number Two Daughter, who despite her not inconsiderable mirth, had anticipated our agonies and had helpfully taken the dogs out on our behalf, a kindness for which we were profoundly grateful.

She is trying to buy a car from Harry’s mother, an exercise which she is finding frustrating because Harry’s mother has agreed to sell it to her but is not the most organised of people, and has locked it and lost the keys. It turns out that there is a spare set, but they are in the glove box.

Mark went over to the car with her today to try and break into it. To their amusement they discovered that passers by were curious and helpful and offered plenty of car-breaking advice, rather than calling the police and reporting a possible crime in progress.

They gave up in the end, because of not wanting to do too much damage to it, and Harry’s mother agreed vaguely to have a bit of a hunt for the keys. Oliver and Harry disappeared then, and Oliver returned just after dark with the message that Number Two Daughter might need to be patient for a while. This is unfortunate because patience is not her strong point.

I went to get my hair cut, because of wanting to look tidy for Gordonstoun when we go back again in a couple of weeks. When I got back Mark and Number Two Daughter had been doing housework as well as car breaking, which was kindly although not terribly effective, and it took me a while to get cleared up.

After that Lucy and I had a clear out of everything she has grown out of over the last few months, which filled the dustbin from the holiday house at the end and the one from the Indian restaurant at the back as well, and which left her bedroom feeling greatly improved.

By the time we were getting ready to go to work we had recovered sufficiently to be able to totter gently around the Library Gardens ourselves. We were very glad that we had an occupation to go to that did not involve prolonged standing, or loading boxes on to trucks, or in fact any activity whatsoever. Sitting eating a picnic in a warm taxi is just about as much as I can manage at the moment.

I have just realised that I have neglected to take any photographs of my activities today, not that any of them were especially thrilling and worthy of pictorial record. I have added a picture of the Lake District on a nice day instead, which it isn’t today.

Maybe when it is I could go out for a bit of a walk.