Sloth?!

Hola!

Where was I?

Oh yeah.

“Sitting on me rump doin’ nuttin!”

Although, to be fair, life has been burbling along, he said, putting his hat back on…?

Recap!

Been to hospital for a consultation, operations on my wrists to decompress any pressure in my carpal tunnels have done all they can, which is nowhere near enough. Still getting pain, almost as bad as it has ever been. Consultant recommended I have an MRI scan to detect where the other pressure on the nerves could be, with the clever money going for my neck, shoulder or even brain, rather than the Isle of Wight, although bookies are still taking bets on that.

Started physio, lovely girl, freckles,(not her real name), gives good info and advice, but I pity her boyfriend. Seriously, any mugger who fancies his chances will end up mangled if she gets her coconut crushing paws on him. Think she operates on the theory of scaring the problem out of you, which is fine, as long she doesn’t mind mopping up afterwards.
Her scare tactics have ensured that I’ve been doing the exercises she advised, so my mobility has improved, but I have yet to go for an Aquacize session at the local pool. The thought of me, and my pot bellied gorilla body, reach two three fouring with a gaggle middle aged women does not appeal.

Sarah, my physio, also said I am to increase the amount of endorphins I receive. Two ways to do this – do something pleasurable or buy them online. As the second option involves having brain chemicals syringed from the original owner and then into my head, I’m getting back to some serious enjoyment. Well, trying to.

Trouble is, I feel guilty about so many things I have a problem having fun.

Examples?
Boozy chats with mates in a pub leave me worrying about cash, weight, liver and so on.
Internet, like pc use, hurts my arm and neck. Besides, I should be mailing or blogging or apologizing for not doing either or doing something creative.

So, instead, I am living the closest thing to The Dream I ever have done.
I am still having a massage once a week and doing some voluntary work in a charity shop sorting their books out.

Oh yeah, jealous now?

Found that I was being isolationist again and needed something to force me out and about. A guided walk scheme, for health, looked interesting but I was always knackered when it came to doing it. Plus, my sleep patterns what they are, 10 in the morning is not always a good time to let me loose in the local woods. Some squirrel could come back and find me asleep in his bed, telly on and his Hazelnut HobNobs munched into oblivion and my tumtum.

Taking some stuff into a charity shop, I saw the sign asking for volunteers and enrolled. Now, for around 6 hours a week, I shovel Danielle Steels and Catherine Cooksons into the shelves, already creaking under a Wilbur Smithload of tat. Lawrence Llewellyn Bowen and the GI diet means that there are more cookbooks, home decoration and gardeners bibles being thrown out these days than you can shake an Alan Titchmarsh pork and chocolate Changing Rooms Ground Force calendar at. When I started there, the shelves and storeroom resembled a scene from Apocalypse Now, especially scenes at the bridge. Having spent 3 hours trying to alphabetise the “female fiction” (“Of course you’re the best, I always snore before climaxing”), I freaked out when someone asked if I knew if we had anything by “her who writes the books about the woman, you know, from Liverpool”. A couple of charity donation collectors found me two weeks later, slumped in a bar in Hanoi, not far from Hay-On-Wye. Once dried out, I went back into the madness and found I fitted in. So far, I have had a woman ask for a copy of Mein Kampf for her husband (anniversary gift?), a bloke looking for a book on law called Archibald (“It tells judges and lawyers what to do, yeah?”), and plenty of others, apparently just mooching, who then turn and tell you the ISBN and catalogue number of the book they once read on holiday in Crete 12 years ago, what happened on the holiday, what the food was like, how long they spent throwing up, how dirty the hospital was and what their own doctor said when they came back from the coma. Oh, and there’s a woman on the cover, do you have it?

I do enjoy being busy, organising, helping with the odd query and spotting the tiaras among the tat. Just wish I did not have such a manky arm so I could spend more time and effort there. As it is, I am not going in today as my arm’s a bit buggered and I want to spend more time there tomorrow, setting up for an inspection on Friday.

Doing this has taken over an hour and a half and I am beginning to seize up again.
Time for drugs, a shower, get dressed, a quick tidy and a nap before bedtime.

More news, as I snooze.