Some weeks are just like that…that downward spiral of events that should, in theory, have you deciding enough is enough say, by Tuesday. This week should have been one of them but for some peculiar reason the bleak, end it all, mood failed to materialise.
Monday, as you are all very well aware by now, was a reminder that The Fatdog and I should be keeping well clear of bigger hills especially in winter. A sad setback you might think…but no…it was a mere mental shrug of the shoulders and then onto the re-think. That did surprise me given that expectations were high.
But Tuesday had more bad news just waiting to happen. Tuesday was dentist day!
I knew it wasn’t going to be fun – 2 teeth due to be removed and a troublesome molar to be tackled for the 4th time in 6 weeks! They didn’t mention, some 20 years ago, that when they did things like root treatments and crowns that they kill off the tooth. They also failed to mention that these dead teeth won’t last as long as good, untreated, teeth. Given that I had quite a lot of root treatments and crowns done some 20 years ago I’ve recently discovered I’ve a pandemic on my hands as one by one my re-constructed gnashers fall prey to the ravages of time…and jelly babies.
It’s a bit like being party to the final dying stage of stars where matter implodes forming black holes which, as I reflected as the dentist gave a twist and a pull, was exactly what was happening in my gob at that particular moment in time.
Oddly it went really well. I was in a damned sight more pain during the hillwalk of the previous day. Even after the anaesthetic wore off there was no residual ache. It was all a bit puzzling, I thought cheerfully, as I sat down to my tea and cookies only a couple of hours later. I still reckoned that by now I should be totally miserable given the morning’s dental attrition and yesterday’s humbling on a piddly little hill. Misery just wasn’t happening.
But all was not lost – I still had one chance to plunge myself into the depths of despair and self pity. Tuesday night is circuit training night. Surely that would tip me over the edge.
I enjoy my Tuesday circuit training sessions even if my legs don’t. Sadly I must be the only person He has had the undoubted pleasure of training who is actually less capable on the circuit than when he started, some two and a half years before. A depressing thought if ever there was one…but no, once again my mood was far too buoyant for that sort of negativity. I battled my way around the apparatus, ignoring the complaints from the legs as they in turn ignored the pounding beat of the music and did their own thing. This was a very strange week indeed.
I eventually gave up trying to be depressed. It just wasn’t worth it. I had put in a lot of hours and effort into the attempt but I had got nowhere fast. I took Wednesday off to take stock and plan my next move.
Thursday arrived and I was ready to execute my final ploy. I was going to bake blueberry muffins! That should do the trick, given that I’ve only baked a couple of times in my life. Disaster and happy despair awaited with every tentative weighing of ingredients and every slow, unsteady, stir of the big wooden spoon. It would be a glorious, heart rending, failure!
Near perfect muffins, that’s what I took out of the oven. Near perfect muffins…(sigh)