There is nothing – I repeat – NOTHING better than the feeling I get on the other side of the bout of malady.
The recent weather has matched my mood stroke for stroke – imagine the vivid blue of the sky hand in hand with the fresh crispness given to every branch, bird and building by the rays of the autumn sun.
The fugue of the previous weeks just dissipated – things – I – people around me were suddenly real and wonderfully familiar.
Well no…I refuse to pathologise pure joy.
It is brilliantly weird – when I feel well, feeling ill is so alien to me.
I feel loved, supported, cared for…
Which reminds me of the more delicious parts of my youth – the bits that I didn’t scream out when I met the super sensational soaraway sun…
For my first 12 years of life we had Christmas and birthdays the prerequisite number of times of year – I was spoilt – no, not false memory syndrome – when I refused to eat my mince and tatties, Dad would mash them up and make them into a castle – not before removing all the onions – and then I’d only eat them off his plate…
Horsey back – football and swings in the garden – zillions of toy shoulders – a ready made playmate and protector in the shape of a brother a year older than me (ok, very occasionally he was my arch enemy) – we had cats, tortoises, budgies and a big square round the back of the house where we’d play football, hide and seek, kick the can, generically running around like idiots, Japs and Commandos and, of course, cowboys and Indians.
What a lovely image.
I’m loved, supported unquestioningly in my chosen, er, profession by Ella and my close and by my wider circle of friends.
I have a bunch of folk I’ve never met before prepared to provide me with hospitality and fine conversation just a little way up the road, further up the road and around the rest of the UK coastline.
What’s not to like?
This week I managed not to come last in the local pub quiz and next week I’ll be going to see Mark Steel and Corby’s finest citadel of entertainment, the Core at the Corby Cube.
Then, well then I’ll try to wangle a return to southwest Scotland so I can ramble a few pre Christmas miles before returning to the festival where we celebrate Santa’s birth and the Yuletide red of Coca-Cola’s marketing campaign.
Walk a mile