After writing last night's entry, we seemed to get a bit of a...(counts fingers)...fourth wind, and we shifted boxes. All in all, about 70-some-odd boxes, shoved into our bedroom. Then, because it had become one of d's goals for the weekend, we shifted a bookcase too. Then, with our wind blown out, we collapsed onto our respective couches, grunting in pain and misery and a sense of a job well done.
"Ow!"
"Urrgh..."
"Just...freakin'...ow!"
"Kill me. Kill me now..."
"Did I mention the owness?"
"Mebbe just a little, yeah. You're talking. You're talking and it's morning. Kill me. Or yourself. I don't care. Whichever's easier..."
We were...shall we say...a little grumpy when we woke up this morning, after Night 2 of our self-imposed Couchy Exile.
And no, of course I didn't do the 6.30 walk. It was all I could manage to drag myself out of...couch...at all this morning. Pootled through the day, doing one of the other inevitable things that needs doing. My boss, bless him, has something of a satirical sense of humour. He's been keen to impress upon me the fact that my move to the work-from-Wales basis is conditional on his being able to see at least some of the surface of my desk.
Honestly - you'd think the man had never worked with journalists before...Which, now I come to think of it, he probably hasn't, which explains altogether too much for a Monday evening. Annyway - what this means is that, for all the 70-odd boxes of stuff we packed this weekend, I have my own private excavation job to do at work to make this move a reality. I packed my rucksack with as much desk-flotsam as I could carry - at least three mugs, a cyber-head, a thermal vest, y'know, the normal stuff you'd expect on any well-used desk - and carried it all home. By the time I got through the door, My back and neck had remembered the grumpiness of this morning. I staggered in through the door, and dumped the sack.
"Hey honey," said d. "I'm dead now."
I looked past her into the kitchen, where a rather delicious-smelling, complex meal was on the stove.
"Still cooking though," I noted. She raised an eyebrow at me, as if to ask "is that all you ever think about?"
"Good, good," I added, flashing the skeleton of a smile. "Me too," I added. "Dead, I mean."
"No boxes," she mumbled at me. "No more boxes. Not tonight."
"No," I agreed. "No boxes tonight."
"Pain pill?" she asked.
"Hit me," I said. Bad choice of phrase, given our pre-existing pain levels, but fortunately, d was in too much pain of her own to take a free shot.
"They're in the pill box," she said.
I blinked.
"Ah."
You see, we take a lot of drugs between us - diabetic drugs of different sorts, thyroid drugs for d, pain pills, heartburn pills, Xenical, allergy pills, yadda yadda yadda...We had them all in a big canvas shopping bag in the living room.
Until last night.
When we put them all into a storage box. And put a lid on it....and then, on the breath of our fourth wind, put it somewhere in the bedroom. Among the 70-odd others.
"Bugger," I said.
And the night wound on.
I'll have to go through the boxes in the next day or so, as I'm running low on Xenicals in the rucksack. But not tonight. Tonight there's pain and Tuesday to focus on and obsess about, if I can be bothered. Or alternatively, there's glorious, couchy sleep to have, and Tuesday to meet in the morning...Oh, blood was 4.7 this morning, by the way...Now, where was I?...Oh yeah...
ZZZZzzzz....ZZZZzzzzz....ZZZZ....
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