Gnarly I think might be the term for my body and mood. I am like Mrs Overall's younger sister. I am in such a bad way, I do not even know what to do about it. Every now and then, I crawl into bed and sob. Do I go to London to my own osteopath? Do I hang on and hope that someone can fit me in up here? My first instinct was to get on a train. Only the fact, I did not know whether I could make it from the train to the taxi rank the other end stopped me. I think I could just about make it if I did not carry a baby or a handbag. I might have to cry the whole four hours down there though. Alternatively, I could get slightly out of it on anti-inflammatories and white wine.
I have been looking forward to going down to London to see some friends and take care of a bit of business; it does not have the same attaction if I literally have to crawl back into town. Maybe I could tell everyone: "Fell orf the hunter. Damned shame. Had to shoot the horse." That would also explain the reek of alcohol if I started drinking with my GNER breakfast bap. It sounds so much more interesting than "Dicky back. Old crock. What can you do?" At one point my husband said: "You seem to be walking better." In what world does he live? My body is completely twisted and I am dragging a foot. The only thing I am missing is a bell-rope. There are times when it is thoroughly demoralising to live with an optimist.
A small part of me feels as if I should sort it out up here and that I cannot keep getting on a train every time I want a hair cut or a newspaper. (Actually, I did get a hair cut up here a few weeks ago. I hated it. It took the guy about seven minutes. Seven minutes. Maybe it takes my London hairdresser seven minutes and he spends another 30, crouched behind my head making scissor sounds, but I doubt it.) Another part thinks: "Go to London. See your own man. Make up some excuse and stay a while."