I pride myself on keeping fit and active. When I was young, I
used to leap from my bed each morning and bounce around the house
like a gazelle on steroids. Now, I slide from my bed each morning and
shuffle around like a eunuch with piles for the first hour of the
day. I, too, have sustained an injury which I have worsened by ignoring
the fact that I'm mortal like the rest of the human race. These
things force you to re-evaluate your way of life and what matters the
most to you most.
To be
honest, as soon as I have had my op for my injury I shall be back to
training again, just like I have done all my life. I know what is
important in my life. I always have, even though I have not always
shown it. When push comes to shove, only close family and friends
really count, I suppose I knew that when I was young, but I was too
engrossed in being an idiot to tell the people I loved how much they
meant to me.
If you
have read my previous blogs, and are now starting to think that I'm
going all American sitcom, where one episode can cause you to
contract type one diabetes because of its sugar content, please
read on, there is a reason for the schmaltz, as the late, great, Harry
Muntz used to say!
Last
week the nemesis (my wife) and I had an excursion to the local DIY
superstore. We paid our visit on a Sunday, which is something I normally avoid
doing. I believe that a Sunday visit to a DIY store or a garden
centre is the new church for the middle-aged population of Britain. I
try to avoid this, because I don't want to be associated with them. It
starts with the DIY store and ends up with you thinking a scone is a
treat and 'Flog It' is compulsive television viewing!
By the
way to all the people in the south it's pronounced "scone" to rhyme with "phone", with a
capital 'O' - that's why it has an 'E' on the end, none of this "scon"
rubbish!
While
walking around the said DIY store, giving reasons for not sorting out
the fence which is now falling over more times than an Italian
footballer in a penalty area, I noticed a strange little plump
gentleman talking to a member of staff about a brightly-coloured
gnome. What caught my attention was that the man was obviously consumed
with interest about the little pot figure, as he talked to the young
staff member, who either thought he should have listened more at
school or couldn't wait for his university course to finish so he
could get a proper job away from gnomes and men like the one who was
dominating the conversation. But, as the little plump man ranted on
about the merits of gnomedom, I couldn't help but notice a woman standing
with them. She was much taller than the little plump man, and well
dressed, and was quite attractive. I couldn't help but wonder that if
she was gnome-man's partner, why?
This
lady had a look of boredom on her face that I have not seen since I once
tried to describe a boxing match to my wife. The taller woman repeatedly
asked the little plump man if they could leave because she wanted to
go for lunch, but he ignored her and waxed lyrical about his collection
of gnomes. My wife by now was pulling me towards the most expensive
fence panel that has ever been constructed. I don't know how they
can charge so much for something which contains no precious
metals. But, as I started to walk away, the gnome man's partner did
something that stopped me dead in my tracks. She picked up a lump of
timber that was on a shelf next to where she was standing, and she eyed
it up, then eyed up her plump little partner. I was transfixed, as I
was sure that I was about to witness a murder! I felt as if I should
do something, but I was helpless. I just stared and to be honest half
of me was hoping she would hit the boring little twonk with the wood.
My wife
pulled me away, but I had not taken more than two steps when I heard a
crash, followed by a deathly silence, which was only broken by the
wails of the little plump man, “Janice, you've knocked its fucking
head off!” he wailed. I peered over and found his assumptions to be
correct, for, there on the floor, was one decapitated gnome. Next to the
shattered pot figure was his wife holding up the murder weapon above
her head and a smile of sheer evil pleasure emblazoned across her
face. She turned to her partner and announced, “I'm off!”
She had
a look of relief, as if a weight had been lifted from her shoulders.
The way she announced that she was going suggested that she didn't
just mean "from the store", but from his life: she had had enough. One
middle-aged woman had realised that life is short, and there was
no time to worry about garden gnomes. I, for one, applauded her
behaviour.
“Are
we getting this fence panel or not?” snapped my wife. I saw the
look in her eyes, the same look that the gnome-murdering woman had. There
were too many lumps of wood to hand and not enough gnomes to vent her
rage on, so I replied, “That's a lovely panel, love it, should look
nice in the garden, you go get us a coffee from the cafe, while I go
buy the panel and fasten it to the car!”
Like I
said, life is already too short, and there's no need to try to make it any shorter!
