Look at the biceps on that!
Wednesday, September 15, 2004
So, what's been happening to keep me silent for so many days? You mean, apart from my inherent indolence?
One of the most time- and energy-consuming things has been hefting furniture from houses into vans. Friends and relatives stay in a house for years and then all of a sudden two moves are scheduled within the space of days. And all of a sudden I'm the favourite brother-in-law and friend. My age, fitness, wasted muscles, and sedentary lifestyle as a writer are all ignored and I'm expected to balance beds and wardrobes in a vise-like grip as I stagger up and down flights of stairs. My superhero costume, unfortunately, was in the laundry (where it has been, incidentally, for close to 20 years) so I had to turn up in mufti. There were no cries, therefore, of 'who is that masked man'. Instead, there were sympathetic murmurings of 'who is that cracked and bleeding wreck of a guy with the biceps like a split melon?' That's what it sounded like, anyway, through the pounding of the blood in my ears as the pressure rose.
I survived, of course, and have banked a sum of good favour and charity upon which to call when my time comes. (To move that is: I'm not touting for pall bearers.)
That's enough about my muscles. The arms should be back in good shape to take Sean to a fishing party at Abinger Hammer on Sunday. I will post later about my election to the NUJ.
One of the most time- and energy-consuming things has been hefting furniture from houses into vans. Friends and relatives stay in a house for years and then all of a sudden two moves are scheduled within the space of days. And all of a sudden I'm the favourite brother-in-law and friend. My age, fitness, wasted muscles, and sedentary lifestyle as a writer are all ignored and I'm expected to balance beds and wardrobes in a vise-like grip as I stagger up and down flights of stairs. My superhero costume, unfortunately, was in the laundry (where it has been, incidentally, for close to 20 years) so I had to turn up in mufti. There were no cries, therefore, of 'who is that masked man'. Instead, there were sympathetic murmurings of 'who is that cracked and bleeding wreck of a guy with the biceps like a split melon?' That's what it sounded like, anyway, through the pounding of the blood in my ears as the pressure rose.
I survived, of course, and have banked a sum of good favour and charity upon which to call when my time comes. (To move that is: I'm not touting for pall bearers.)
That's enough about my muscles. The arms should be back in good shape to take Sean to a fishing party at Abinger Hammer on Sunday. I will post later about my election to the NUJ.
