I curled up on the couch, acutely aware of every muscle in my body complaining, particularly those around my hips and lower back. The pain became more intense, such that I began not to be able to feel my feet. "Why me?" I thought. "Why does this have to happen to me? What I have done to deserve being tortured like this?" It's Sunday, and I have so mych to do, so many things to create, so much to write and draw. I have an Adventure Story, and the Ultimate Answer to Anne Rice to write.
Instead, I'm curled up and whimpering to myself, sobbing quietly.
"Dammit. Stop being an idiot." I tell myself. I know exactly how to deal with being in this much pain. It's not the end of the world. I potter next door to P and ask for a cuddle. Cuddles make everything better. Also, not feeling sorry for oneself is the answer. Life sucks, and concentrating on how much you hurt is not going to improve matters in the least.
Later, I walk P to work. Fresh air is good, and I'm bloody well not going to let a bad pain day get the best of me. I'm walking back after dropping him off; I have several errands to run, including obtaining the relevant items to ensure that when P writes "hot red-head", he's telling the truth. (At least, about the red-headedness.) I can feel every muscle in my legs; it's a sort of acute all-over ache, as though I've just run a long distance. At the same time, pain is radiating down my legs from my lower back. I feel like the girl in The Red Shoes, when her feet and legs felt as though they were hot pins. Every step hurts, and it seems a very, very long way home.
The way to deal with this is to avoid thinking about it. Instead, I look about me, actually trying to see the world. Today is a beautiful golden Autumn day. The trees in the garden are varying shades from green to a deep blood red. The rowan berries have all been eaten by the birds though. Above, the sky is blue, with long whisps of cloud. Each of those clouds is composed of a flutter of dainty ice crystals, so far up that they're almost above the plane which crosses their path. At the end of the road, the Cathedral towers above the georgian terraces, a sudden flurry of ornate spires, so different from the austerity of the terrace. As I cross, blue sky shows for a moment through the windows in the highest spires.
On this side of the road, the townhouses have been taken over by offices, each with a big polished plaque ostentatiously indicating the firm within. As I walk by, I don't really notice the names of the firms. Instead, I watch the skewed reflections of the houses opposite, as they warp and wiggle when I walk. They look awfully like the opening credits to Doctor Who.
I pass Paper Tiger, and hesitate. There are really lovely notebooks within. I can hear them calling to me. "No." I tell myself. "A girl can have too many notebooks." That girl is undoubtedly me. "Besides," says the evil inner voice. "It's not like you can really write much any more. Your hand and wrist hurts to often." I scowl, and head determinedly towards the shop. I shall have a notebook!
I browse for a while, ogling the various notebooks. I have a terrible weakness for Moleskine notebooks. I fiddle with a pocket size book, perfect for carrying about and scribbling ideas. I put it back though; I already have such a Little Black Book, full of notes and sketches.
I manage to escape with my wallet untouched, having browsed happily. Success; standing still or walking slowly are more painful than actually making progress.
I cross the main road, thinking about walking down here yesterday with my best friend from university. We went to Murrayfield to watch the ice hockey. If you have to watch a bunch of blokes chase something around, then you should pick ice hockey above football. It's extremely fast, often violent (in which other sport are you actually allowed - within the rules of the game - to beat up your opponents?!). I grin. Yesterday one of our mutual friends joined us, with her husband and her three year old. "Han! Look! I got a dog!" He exclaimed when he saw me. (Jehane is too difficult to say at that age.) He waved a very fluffy husky at me. "Awww," I said. "He's so cute! Do you have a name for him?" He looked at me with all the utter disdain that a three year old can muster for an adult that is being silly (an awful lot, by the way). "His name is Dog." "That's a good name." I say. I receive another withering look. He deposits Dog in my lap, and turns to his mother for a peice of hot apple cake. She came prepared for sitting in a cold ice rink!
The game was very exciting. At one point, two players tried to hit the puck at the same time from opposite sides. They hit it with such force that it flew up between their sticks, high enough that it hit one of the spotlights, shattering the bulb and setting it swinging wildly. Our three year old friend waved Dog excitedly and bounced about. This is proper entertainment. It was even better when they brought out the zamboni to clear the ice of glass fragments.
I laugh. Yesterday was fun, and it was good to spend proper time with my friends; I've not seen them for a while.
Children shouting bring me out of my reverie, and I realise I'm more than halfway home. Passing the Usher Hall, there's some sort of kiddy halloween event on; there are hordes of four foot high witches and wizards brandishing staffs bigger than they are. I cause some bother; my authentic wool cloak reminds them of Harry Potter, and there are a chorus of children telling their mothers that they want a cloak like that. A gust of wind conveniently makes my cloak billow dramatically at the right moment, and I grin. It's wonderful when things work like that!
Further up the road, I remember what my physiotherapist said about posture, and I make a point of straigtening my back, and sucking my stomach in to pull my pelvis into the right position. I feel suddenly quite skinny! Three minutes later I pass the shoe shop, and forget all about posture as I fall in love with The Perfect Boots. Sadly, they're £130 and way out of my price range. It doesn't stop me ogling them for a few minutes though.
In this way, I get home without thinking about how sore I am. Success, which is rewarded with Mackies ice cream and a bottle of rose (not to be all consumed this evening).
Living with P is lovely. I have my own room, set out just how I want it. Everyone who's seen it has said that it's very Me. I have bookshelves on two of the walls, and my desk fits perfectly in the corner. Tonight, I've even tied one of my candle lanterns to the velux window, so its suspended in the middle of the room. But, I don't need to describe it. Photos are much more interesting; see for yourselves:
If you click on the photos, they'll take you through to Flickr, where I've annotated them, so you can be nosy and see what's on my bookshelves and around my room.
Very Me, indeed. Now I'm curled up on the couch, under the blankets. I'm fiddling with photos, and writing while sipping wine and avoiding the open packet of marshmallows which are threatening the slimness of my waistline. Pain can be damned: I'm very, very lucky in spite of it.
