My left foot... revisited (again!)

Last March I went down the gym and took an induction course. I'd joined the club to swim and then I thought I'd be clever and join the gym, which cost nothing extra so why not? While in the gym I tried various pieces of kit, one being something that required me to push my feet against something and I knew immediately that I'd injured myself in some way or other. Within a day or two I was proved right and I started hobbling around the place. So in the end I went to a local GP hub, had X rays and blood tests and nothing came back, there was nothing wrong with me, I must have just injured myself. But it's always my left foot. In the end the ailment left the building and I was back to normal again. If you check back on this blog there's virtually a whole month between my post on the subject and the next post, which was the time I rode to Sevenoaks and back and stopped off at Soprano's for lunch. Anyway, it was earlier in the year. We're now six months down the line and I must have done something (I know not what) to get the old foot ailment back again. This time I'm not going to see anyone about it because I don't think GPs know anything, they never have any concrete answers even if I'd dropped a piece of concrete on my foot, they'd still debate what was wrong and not give me any answers; it's the same with blood tests, they never tell you the results, presumably because nothing is wrong (that's what I was told, actually) so here I am, hobbling around. Well, not now, it's gotten better. Last night I awoke around 0130hrs (I've not been sleeping well). I came downstairs, poured myself a glass of water and dropped a Nurofen, just one, and then I had the best night's sleep ever, waking around 0800hrs and feeling that my foot was better. By and large it is, but I'll probably drop another Nurofen before too long. It's great to feel better, though, really great. My whole mood lifts when I'm feeling good, as I do now, but I'm not fit enough to get on the bike, perhaps tomorrow. I've had this foot thing back again since Wednesday. I was in town on Wednesday, Mayfair to be precise, and I was limping, but nobody I was meeting noticed (thank God!) as there's nothing worse than being recognised as the underdog, the disabled one, but as I say they didn't notice anything, I concealed it well. The last thing I wanted was sympathy. After a business meeting I chilled in a teashop in Shepherds Market. I'm not sure if there's an apostrophe or not, it could be Shepherd's Market, but not in the way that St James's Park has the double 's'. I sat there listening to some kind of Middle Eastern music and then left. I was going to read my book there, Eric Ambler's Passage of Arms, which is great, but the teashop or cafe or whatever you want to call it didn't have the right vibe so I refrained from reading and just sat there watching the guy outside with the shisha pipe, what a disgusting habit is that? Like smoking generally. Horrible. And I should know, I used to smoke. I started at around 19 years old, stopped when I was 25 and then 10 years later started again, for about a year, then stopped for good. Awful habit, but I just gave up, I'm one of those people, I can take or leave things, I don't think nicotine had anything to do with my smoking. I wasn't addicted, put it that way, I wasn't going to be wearing patches or chewing gum, I just smoked and then I stopped. I was more into the bits and bobs that went with smoking: the cigarettes themselves (Marlboro Reds were my favourite, or Camel or Benson & Hedges Gold); then there was the tin, when I smoked roll-ups I had a tin, full of Old Holborn, plus the papers, the Rizlas, and the Zippo lighter of course. Smoking was fun, but like all fun things it wasn't good for my health so I gave up, pure and simple, and I don't miss it, I just stopped. Likewise with drinking, I just stopped and I never looked back, never had any kind of cold turkey, I stopped and I haven't started, it's been nearly eight years. Okay, so it's Saturday morning and I'm watching YouTube videos of big waves and cruise ships capsizing (almost). Not sure what we're doing today. Somebody's coming round to collect a wicker chair that's languishing in our garage, we don't need it, but it's quite good and somebody's on their way round (we hope), meaning we can't go out until they've been and gone. As a result, it's one of those slobby mornings. After my four-part crapola lunch on Thursday (Marmite Sandwich, Mulligatawny soup, cheese and mustard pickle sandwich, chocolate HobNobs and tea) I kept up the trend with a breakfast of more HobNobs and a Marmite sandwich, no porridge for me today. Perhaps I'll keep up the crapola cuisine all day if we go out anywhere today. If the foot gets better perhaps a ride tomorrow, a 15-miler even! Who knows? Not much else to say other than next door got burgled and the burglars sound like they were pros. Doubtless they won't be caught, they never are: 'no arrests have been made'. I want that on a tee-shirt.

It's nearly 2pm. Johnny and Jake are on the TV making their own chocolate and we're still waiting for the person to come round and collect the wicker sofa. She might not turn up, a strong possibility if you ask me. The plan is a drive to Guildford, which means I'll take a trip to Anderton's, check out the guitars. I'm off next week. I need a break I really do and when I go back I'm going to be different. I'm going to keep out of the politics and just do my job and not sit there working beyond the time when I can officially go home. I'm going to chill more at home, read in the conservatory and not constantly freak myself out listening to what other people think of this and that, which just makes me angry and rebellious when there's absolutely no need. In many ways I've been foolish. The moment I let others in, that was the problem. Leaving doors open is always a problem. My advice is close all doors, lock them, don't listen to others, just do your fucking job.