It was bit chilly on the bike this morning. I wish I hadn’t toughed it out and had put proper gloves on rather than my fingerless ones.
A wounded L battles her way around the morning assault course of dog walking. It’s a delicate balancing act I believe. MD on the bad knee side, Doggo on the bad arm side. Then again she has so many injuries to brag about, I’m almost jealous.
For an encore she has to get Daughter up and despatched on the train back to Sheffield, along with a suitcase and a bin liner of bedding. Neither very therapeutic for a bad arm. All achieved though and Daughter texts from the bike storage area on the train, where she rather proudly seems to have set up home.
Well, we’re still waiting for Nottingham’s first gold postbox and second Paralympic winner, Oliver Hynd, is from Kirkby in Ashfield, which we can’t really count.
Our other, for Richard Whitehead, is in Lowdham.
L admits defeat on the bad arm front and cancels her pump class, oddly deciding to walk the dogs again instead. Hope that doesn't cause a relapse.
I’m playing tennis, which is the last game of the season... but he also said that last week. At least I get some dark ale in the Johnson’s afterwards.
Then home to an oddly empty house. With Son and now Daughter both back at Uni, we console ourselves with red wine in bed and toasted spam sandwiches at midnight.
(Thursday 6th September)