Well, shock, horror, I am sticking to the evil doctor’s orders and engaging only in light exercise. Already I can feel my muscles turning into a quivering mass of jelly.
No, it does not help that they were already encased in a very generous coating of blubber, in the first place.
Or that my endorphin store is shot to pieces.
All that warm sunshine that makes an appearance when I am work bound? Wouldn’t you know? That, has scarpered. Now, we have persistent heavy showers.
Maybe you know the kind I am talking about. The kind that makes grass and weeds flourish. The kind that makes it impossible to push a lawnmower around. The kind that makes you long for the three weeks in the Dordogne, now.
And I am fed up of the telly. Of golf played in sunny climes, and tanned athletes shimmying along on their bikes, and football played in the warm balmy evenings in Lisbon.
Nuala Carey was the last straw. There she was on the weather forecast jawing on about how hot it was all over Eastern Europe. And about how Russia has record breaking temperatures. “Meanwhile, over in Western Europe…”
I didn’t hear the rest of it. Just the sound of my runner hitting the TV and falling, with a dull thump, on the floor.
What’s a Red Hen to do?
Overwhelmed by the overgrowth of it all, and compelled to get myself ambulant again, I took to the garden. Ripped the flower bed apart, leaving-I think-only the good stuff in. Transplanted lettuce and rocket into large pots. Fed the flowers in the window boxes. Relished being down there in the dirt, scraping away.(Well, I am a hen after all…)
And I delighted in the old-fashioned elegance of the lupins.
And in the little faces on the violas.
And even in the raindrops, as their little skin of surface tension tried to hold each one on the lupin leaves.
It’s amazing what even a little light exercise will do.