Mrs T returned full of cold, with aching feet having walked the entire perimeter of Lisbon over 3 days with a mutual friend. Tired, emotional, and with a stinking cold. My cold, having somewhat abated of late, reared its ugly head again after 2 rogue cans of Stella in Coventry (my Chutney and Biltong making friend’s shed) and a couple of extra long cigarettes. I woke up on Wednesday wrecked, a symbol to myself of how not to feel and a warning not to smoke or drink Stella. I think the last time I had that would have been decades ago, theres something sinister about it; I don’t like it and it certainly hates me, but when you taste the ice cold golden liquid it tastes pretty good, I must be intolerant to something, which 25 years ago would have been unspeakable, back then, infact probably 30 years ago, I was pretty much at the pinnacle of my powers. The power to wreck it like a mentalist, push on through for days without sleep, fuelled on illicit chemicals, mainly man made, and whatever booze was in whoever’s house I happened to be in.
But the Cold is back, it never really left, just took a holiday to some nether body region, probably hung out in my ear lobe for the softness, to regroup, and then hit me like a sledgehammer yesterday Wednesday, and today (I went to work, but only had to walk down the river wye for about a mile and visit someones garden whilst they were on holiday, so I didn’t have to speak to anyone and did my own thing, in my own time. But as soon as I returned home I lay down and fell asleep for an hour, just like that, the dog was stuck out side in the garden; I’d let him out when I got back, and it was his barking and scratching at the door which roused me and forced me to take him for a walk. I listened to Keane, because I was feeling sorry for myself and that’s a record which you can really belt the songs out, turns out my voice is getting old too, I can’t reach the high notes, less still hold a note for long without my voice cracking. I’m a mess today people and the only way through this is to be a good boy this weekend, get some fresh air, eat well, avoid the pub and do something in the garden, then i’ll be right as rain on Monday, I’ll come up smiling. So with Mr and Mrs T’s weekend to ourselves will probably be spent with our feet in a wash bowl with hot water in, like in the olden days, that’ll show the bloody cold.