“We don’t heal in isolation, but in community.” S. Kelley Harrell
As I woke last Monday morning, it may have seemed just another day but there was hope and a reason to spring out of bed; the gym was open again. Let the inmates return.
For four long months I have had my mat in the dining room, an old laptop tuned in exclusively to Channel Kents and completed numerous Zoom classes in silent torment.
I’ve entertained the window cleaner and a very surprised young milk delivery lad but now it was back to the real thing. Not even the ice on my windscreen could dampen my joy.
First I had to retrieve my trainers, now home to legions of spiders, hastily evicted. My old cut down pyjama bottoms had taken on a Robinson Crusoe look and would not do for public view.
Although Zoom classes are still going, there’s no substitute for people. A few of the Golden Girls were already there, rumoured to having been camping out all night, time to escape the “grumpy old gits” back home.
They were resplendent as ever courtesy of Sports Direct online and looked at me as if I had slept in the gutter. It’s not what you wear but the way that you wear it, I thought, although ten minutes on the rowing machine had me thinking how bad I would look on a gurney.
Before lockdown I had thought I might make Henley; now I’d barely make end to end in Lister Park.
A constant flow of familiar faces rolled through the doors, gingerly taking baby steps, lathered in sanitiser, all glad to be back. A few mornings later I listened to a story about bloggers (do they mean me?) and influencers (definitely not!) at gyms.
The story went that large queues had formed at the likes of Sports Direct, people desperate to buy the latest gear. Typical of our times the new apparel was not to sweat in but to “influence”.
I pulled on my twenty year-old sweatshirt, its fraying collar and cuffs very accommodating, and knew its influencing days were over, much like mine.
Later in the week I tried a solo spin class courtesy of You Tube. The instructor was a tanned pocket rocket complete with spray-on outfit and teeth so white I needed my sunglasses.
As hard as I tried I could not understand a word of her US drawl so was very grateful when both my water and breath ran out simultaneously. The off button had rarely given me so much pleasure.
The Trials of Horace
My Mum’s constant companion – apart from my Dad – is Horace who sits devotedly alongside her bed never complaining – unlike my Dad. Move Horace and you risk a beating.
The choice of name has more than pure chance attached, given that it is my Dad’s middle name and she can cuss at will with no fear of retort.
As a means of testing her faculties on a daily basis the simplest way is to kidnap Horace. Without a glance to the chair she instantly knows something is wrong.
Place his cap the wrong way round and cue a storm; put it on sideways and the look says it all. A few memories may be fading but the marbles are mostly still in the tin.
Long Lost Beauty
Last week I mentioned a piece in the local paper concerning plans to convert the old Bradford College building into 190 “apartments”.
The article attracted almost a hundred readers’ comments, mostly well-made; the overriding sentiment was one of sadness.
Bradford is caught in a cruel trap; host to a multitude of long-since vacated but still beautiful buildings yet seemingly devoid of any modern day use.
These buildings are expensive to reclaim and could be symbolic of a city’s bright new future not a totem to terminal decline. But the cart is well and truly ahead of the horse.
The city needs an economic miracle to breath new life into these old beauties before many more are subject to becoming simply low cost housing and ghettos of the future.
The Victorians will be turning in their graves but there are no easy answers.
And Finally
Another birthday slipped relatively anonymously by this week; who wants to broadcast on Facebook that they are 58? A trickle of cards followed – none with any money in – but one from a Godson most likely seeking some.
I noted that it was printed by a British company but made in China; how many pennies do they save? And they could not even find anybody to spell ageing correctly; is it me?
The cheery message said “Let’s go for a pint sometime” which interpreted into teenspeak meant “I fancy a night out on you.”
Why I asked myself would an 18 year old want to drag me out for a pint? I could see the conversation flowing along several possible lines.
“Any chance of an advance on when you croak it for my GAP year…no point in waiting?”
“School think I ought to do a gender assessment course as I’ve always fancied Beyonce.It costs!”
“Ok – I’ll never see you again so can you cough up now?”
I’ve blocked his number.
Lord Frazer Irwin says
Fifty eight, tha’s nowt but a spring chick. But I know how you must feel. I used to walk everywhere down town five times a week. Four hundred yards and this recycled teenager is puffing like something from a railway museum. I got rid of the rowing machine before this lot started. The worst of it is my hair, only managed one cut last year between lockdowns. It’s well below my shoulders now and growing fast. Re the old buildings – surely revamping them into residential must be cheaper than building hundreds out in the sticks. Look at the former Listers Mill complex.