The above communication arrived by email this afternoon.
I did not get any painting done.
I have been looking at it, on and off, ever since, mostly wondering how on earth I managed to lose any marks at all on the numeracy and literacy tests: but I don’t care really, because I have passed.
If I can manage a suitable speed running up and down between two lines then I can become a prison officer with my very own polyester trousers.
I am going to have to get my own pair made out of something acceptable.
I have spent the day painfully not checking my emails. I took the dogs out for a long walk this morning, and resisted the temptation to dash straight upstairs to the computer when I got back, because obviously the Prison Service were not going to have written to me by five past nine.
Instead I brought the logs in and paid the takings into the overdraft and hoovered up the mess left over when Mark left a tissue in the pocket of his overalls and it went into the washing machine.
I did not check the emails.
I hung washing up and put washing away and filled the dishwasher and went to the library.
I couldn’t bear it any longer and rushed up to just look.
I closed my eyes whilst the email folder contemplated whether it should open or not.
There was no email.
I sat despondently for a minute, and then thought that I could fill in the time by catching up on the sleep that I didn’t have last night. Mark went home early, and I stayed on the taxi rank, which was very noble of me. I made sure that he knew how brave I was being.
The obvious consequence of this was that I felt rubbish this morning, so I improved matters by going back to bed.
When I woke up I was just checking my emails when the lodger arrived. She had popped around to tell me about her latest adventures, none of which were any more exciting than mine really, and we drank coffee and agreed that lots of cash and a good holiday in the sun would improve February considerably. It was nice to see her, and I made sure to give her lots of advice about the best way to live her life, before dashing up to the computer the second she had gone.
It was there.
I had expected a rush of ecstasy, but it didn’t happen. Instead I felt faintly sick, and wondered if it is a good idea to embark on a whole new career in your fifties. Then I thought that something being a rubbish idea has never deterred me in the past, and I should just get on with it.
After that I had got no excuses for not going to the gym. Worse, I have got to go to the gym now, because of the dreadful bleeping test. I have got to run up and down a gym getting faster and faster until the bleeping stops. I am something of a novice at running, and it is not going to be easy.
I went to the gym.
I huffed and puffed on the ghastly running machine. This is a dreadful contraption which is supposed to speed up and slow down when you touch the screen, except it doesn’t. I can be poking away at the screen and nothing happens for ages, and then suddenly it accelerates up to fifty miles an hour and hurls me off backwards. Even the emergency stop does not seem to work. I hate it.
Mark says that probably the touch screen thing is an elaborate joke, and the whole thing is operated by remote control from the front office with a camera.
I might have to overcome the hideous embarrassment and go outside to do some actual running instead.
Anyway, after various misadventures on the running machine I did some rowing and some cycling and went for a swim.
When I came out I could barely walk up the stairs.
I staggered back to the taxi rank and collapsed into my taxi, suddenly profoundly grateful for unstrenuous employment.
I am sitting here now.
Everything hurts.
I am not confident that I am going to reach the desired level of fitness in the four weeks available.
I think I might have got old.
