The National Guard have not arrived but a diagnosis via a very smart cyclist on Twitter has and it is that illy-something-band problem, apparently caused by weak hips or tight hamstrings. I did overshoot a back handspring the other night on the tramp, but suspect it’s neither weak hips but crouching down for too long in the less than spacious confines of wee greenhouse that did it.
I am back reading Ernest Becker again, even though The Botany of Desire is quite fascinating.
Some good news, the oh so tentative, we’re losing him, we’re losing him arugula plant has survived and established a few new leaves. I ate one — pure spicy Rocket! But in thoroughly demoralizing news 100 percent mortality on my transplants. Something is up, I am not growing them long enough or hardy enough. By the time I carried them 2 blocks to the garden they’d expired. Now with peg leg it will be difficult to do the necessary coaxing and examination to see if there’s any potentional for a ressurrection.
There’s nothing for it I shall have to call the mammy in another timezone for explanation. She’ll have some invocation for me.
Trying to calculate how to water the garden on one leg.
Small male insists I am faking.
Therefore it should not be a problem.
Males have such confidence in me, just an hour ago a man asked me at the hardware shop how to build a shop counter and did I think he could do it himself? Obviously the Minister of Building here assured him he could indeed do it himself, he looked hopeful, then I had to point out indicating my six buck piece of pine shelf, that er …he was asking the wrong person for instructions.
Bless…
The 72 hour evidence is in at the 48 hour mark. Tripping the turf of the big name hardware shop repeated sharp pain in my right quad became a bit of a limp. Ligament? Or quad equiv of a shin splint? I think it must have been sustained on a landing from a back handspring. Feels like it’ll only be a few days grief and most importantly I will still be able to do my Rings malarky.
Clamped to icepack.
After a scramble of an urban adventure to fetch wood hip mama is supine with icepack, while dude cool small male is attending to the shelving project. His only demand for his bracket attaching labour (and the diligence is a sight to behold) is 2 episodes of Peter Snow’s Great Battlefields.
The ace Mr Snow is vocally redolent of the equally ace and surely related Jon Snow of bike to work fame, amongst other C4 contributions.
I like that the heros in this living room, at such a scorching hour, are hot males age 60+ called Snow. Aside from longterm insuite hero-ine who is transgendered, age undetermined and called Big Toe.
Note Tony Judt’s comments in this radio interview on “something after” his death in relation to those who knew him, family, close friends etc. Last week I talked to a recent widower and had a saddening conversation in which he could only talk of the finality, that he could no longer talk or touch or listen to his wife and I was reminded yet again we have no place to put death, to put grief and perhaps thinking and discussing this something after (the idea that someone continues to live on through our memory of them) could be a start.