I think too much. I think too much in the mornings. They are bleak times for me. But I have my mother’s genes and I keep going on.
It isn’t exactly pain. It is more of an ache, a discomfort. But it is constant. I thought it might be muscular, or worse skeletal. It’s been there for over 3 months and it hampers my walking and my yoga practice. I went to see the physio yesterday, a kind woman who is sensitive to my oddities, I think. She looked bemused, got me to stand and stretch. It’s not your muscles, she said, it’s your glands.
It scared him. He panics. I saw the same with him and his mother. I understand. I need you, he said. It may be nothing, I say in return, just a long-standing bladder infection, probably. And it probably is, just that. But he still dashed over to the surgery and booked me in. Nothing till Monday, and that will only be a phone call. Diagnosis at a distance is clearly the way forward. We shall see.
I did still draw, though the tiredness dogs me. I need to keep pushing at my safety. I want to find my line, my way of expressing what I see (and feel) and I’m a long way off. I drew in the boatyard and then the harbour. I wanted to be alone but two blokes sat in a van across from me talking and running the engine. Then I sat and drew a boat on blocks. I love all the paraphernalia of harbours. But they are still static things. I need to manage movement. I did draw a little outside the station. You get some rum characters there, and outside Wetherspoons. I watched as three elderly ladies mounted their bus in a glut of shopping and jaunty hats. It was a dial-a-bus kind of affair – clearly they live in the sticks and have come for their weekly shop. Will I have the nerve to ask someone to sit for me soon?
