It struck me yesterday as I walked how much this arthritis in my hip has sapped my strength. It’s a slow drip sort of discomfort with real pain at times. My walking is slow, measured and a bit of a chore to be honest, yoga practice is the same. I just keep going on, what else can I do? And I am mindful that an operation to alleviate it is not a promise. It may not happen, and if it does it may not make it better, it might even worsen it. I have to accept it all. He told of how the Cambrian News were reporting on the orthopaedic department’s trial with a robot who mends hips. He was excited, I am more, what is the word, sanguine or is doubtful? I don’t want it but I want to feel stronger.
I caught a glimpse of a group of people leaving C block last night. They were clearly going out for supper (or at least that is what I imagined was the case) for one of the women had a bouquet of flowers in her hand. It prompted me think about when we used to do the same. I never looked forward to it, nor indeed enjoyed it much when there. I loved the conversation but there was much awkwardness around food, and being tired and wanting to be home and safe. The book I’m re-reading had a paragraph where the main protagonist had just seen a opera and it standing in the foyer afterwards watching the audience mill about getting taxis, putting on coats and so on. She recognises that she suddenly feels very lonely. How I know that feeling. Too well. I’ve been to those theatres, those occasions where the drama is over, the dream is spent and it is cold and wet outside and there’s that journey home….
Do I mind this now interior life? Do I miss the metropolis? He mentioned a review that was in the paper about the new Vermeer exhibition in Amsterdam. He wanted to go. Shall we? he asks. Oh, yes, now that I could and would do. Shall we?
