Today was the third grumpy morning in a row. Readers will know by now of my antipathy to Mondays. They are the day of the Uberbinfuhrerherren and are rightly reviled by me not only for the ongoing war of attrition but also for the ungodly hour of 7am at which I have to arise to conduct it. On Tuesday I also sprang... well... clambered up from the futon the floor at the same unearthly hour as I had an early appointment with the physiotherapist at my doctor's surgery. I was downstairs and halfway through a hurried breakfast before I glanced upwards at the calendar and realised that the appointment was in fact for Wednesday. The ensuing grumpiness was further fueled by watching an episode of "Grumpy Old Men" on the television the previous evening which had placed me in the right frame of mind. And so today I had to go through the 7am procedure yet again. As the heating does not switch on until 7am the chill in the house was matched by my frosty demeanour.
Todays physio session stemmed from a visit to my doctor a few weeks ago during which I mentioned that I'd been suffering from pain in my hands for some time. This began earlier this year when I was helping my pal Ian lay the finishing paving flags on the patio. I put it down to the novelty of manual labour but there has not been much improvement since then. The physiotherapist is also the doctor's wife. Now he is a very good doctor but shoots from the hip when talking. We were both laughing at his comments that at my age I shouldn't expect things to heal up overnight. Jane Doe (I shall not use her name to preserve anonimity and marital harmony) remarked that he, who was once partial to rock climbing and expeditions up the Amazon had now become partial to stiffening up in his joints. I immediately felt much better. The words "Physician heal thyself" sprang to mind but in the interests of my own well-being I shall refrain from murmuring them within earshot of him.
From the warmth of the physio table I travelled into the country to a nearby farm to stock up with milk and eggs. For many years I have supported a succession of local milkmen until erratic deliveries and casual service made me sadly withdraw my custom. Reluctant to give my money to the local supermarket I now make a journey once or twice a week to a nearby farm where the milk is actually cheaper and fresher than that supplied by Mr. Morrison & Co. I normally time my visit to just after milking has finished when I know the farmer and his help are in the dairy. If they are still up to their wellies in another bovine by-product I am told just to "help yourself you know where everything is" The same advice also applies if there is no-one within earshot or in the farmhouse. I always endeavour to have the correct money upon me in case the dairy is unmanned so I frequently have to make a quick raid on my home piggy bank or the car park fund in the car ashtray. On the way home, spotting a vacant space by the relatively empty barbers shop I called in for my Christmas haircut. I do have a haircut at other times of the year but the necessity for one is not that frequent as those familiar with me will know. I actually get charged less than the special pensioner's rate, presumably as it takes only a fraction of the time. As a result of the short back and sides coupled with an icy cold morning I arrived home with a demeanour as chilly as the one I got up with.
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