Blood Tests, New Drugs and April Weather

Monday, 15th April 2024

As the days of April cascade into the river of time, I find myself reflecting on the swift passage of this year. It seems like only a moment ago that January enveloped us in its dark, chilly embrace, and now, though the cold lingers, the darkness has begun to wane. Emerging from my three-day retreat at Hive Five, I am greeted by the freshly mown lawns, a testament to Sunday’s labour, and the Hotbin, content with its feast. Monday, however, slipped through my fingers, lost to the necessity of another blood test and the whims of April’s showers. Yesterday, I succumbed to the shadowy veil of Methotrexate’s side effects, a temporary oblivion that held me in its grasp. Today, the remnants of that shadow linger, a ghostly reminder of my body’s rebellion against the medication. Yet, I stand resolute, for to yield to these effects would be to surrender the next six weeks to idleness, a luxury I can ill afford. The garden awaits my touch, the unfinished projects call for completion, and the relentless march of time spurs me onward. In this battle against the temporal tide, I must marshal my strength, for the year will not pause in its flight, and neither shall I. The cold may persist, but the warmth of progress and the light of perseverance will see me through this transient chill. As Methotrexate courses through my veins, a double-edged sword offering both ailment and cure, I am reminded of the delicate balance of life, the ebb and flow of health and sickness, and the indomitable spirit that carries us through. So, with a steadfast heart and a clear eye towards the future, I step forward into the remainder of April, ready to reclaim the time that seems so intent on slipping away.

A Hospital Visit

In the quiet corridors of my memory, I recall Monday as I ventured into the hospital, a place where the air hums with the silent prayers of the hopeful and the resigned. My care had been shifted from the familiar confines of my general practitioner’s office to this vast repository of healing and hope. The waiting room, usually a purgatory for the anxious and the ailing, was brimming over, a sea of faces each carrying their own story. I had armed myself with foresight, having secured an appointment through an online booking tool, a digital charm against the slow tick of the waiting room clock. With a number clutched in hand as a backup to my electronic promise, I settled into the embrace of a hard chair, preparing for the long haul. Yet, fate, it seemed, had cast me in a peculiar role that day. No sooner had I arranged myself, a magazine unopened on my lap, than my name pierced the room, a summons that had me rise like a spirit above the seated throng. As I passed through the parted sea of waiting patients, I could feel the weight of their stares, heavy with unspoken questions and the sharp sting of envy. ‘What makes him so special?’ their eyes seemed to accuse, as if I had unlocked some secret level of existence where the rules of time and turn did not apply. But I was merely a player in the system’s game, a beneficiary of an algorithm that cared not for the length of one’s wait but for the cold logic of appointment times. And so, I offer this small piece of advice, a whisper down the line to those who find themselves in need of the hospital’s services: www.swiftqueue.co.uk a portal to sidestep the purgatorial wait, a modern-day spell to conjure time from the aether. Use it wisely, use it well, and perhaps you too will walk the path of the envied, called forth from the crowd, a quiet victor in the silent struggle against the march of minutes and hours.

Wednesday, 24th April 2024

In the quietude of Wednesday morning, with the sun casting a golden hue over the chilly earth, hearth and home, accompanied by the faithful trot of my dogs I set about a mornings litter pick. The air was crisp, a harbinger of the day’s potential, and my heart was set on the simple task of litter picking, an act that usually brought me a sense of purpose and connection to the world around me. Yet, as the day unfolded, a peculiar sense of disconnection took hold, a veil between me and the joy I typically found in such mundane tasks. It was not the oppressive weight of despair, nor the gnawing teeth of frustration over the carelessness of litterers. It was an absence of pleasure, a void where satisfaction once bloomed. The dogs, ever present, seemed to sense my inner turmoil, their eyes glancing back with a silent understanding that words could not convey. The encounters with passersby, usually a source of light-hearted exchange, felt hollow, as if I were but a spectre in their world. The act of picking, a Sisyphean task against the tide of human neglect, lost its lustre, and yet, there was no surrender in my spirit. I persevered, driven by a sense of duty that transcended the need for enjoyment. The day wore on, the sun climbed higher, and I continued, my movements mechanical, my mind adrift. It was in this solitude, this strange detachment, that I pondered the ebb and flow of emotions, the unpredictable tides that govern our engagement with life’s simplest acts. Perhaps it was a fleeting malaise, a temporary cloud obscuring the warmth of fulfilment. Or perhaps it was a deeper call to introspection, a silent nudge to seek out the missing spark within the recesses of my being. Tomorrow, I mused, might just bring back the joy that today withheld, and I would be there, ready to greet it.

In the quiet contemplation of our litter-picking journey, I find a certain poetry in the way we, as diligent stewards of the environment, navigate the streets. It’s a dance of sorts, one that begins with a set choreography but soon improvises with the whims of the wind-blown trash. Michael, Chyna, and I, we set out with a plan, a route mapped in our minds, but the reality of the task at hand is far more organic. We find ourselves drawn to the neglected corners, the hidden alleys where rubbish gathers like secrets whispered between the walls.

Each piece of litter tells a story, a careless moment, or a hurried step, and we listen with our hands, restoring order to the chaos one piece at a time. The rhythm of our work is meditative, the rustle of plastic and paper a strange music that guides us down Church Street. We are led not by our original intentions but by the need we see etched in the landscape of the community.

Yet, there’s a beauty in this endeavour, a sense of purpose that binds us. With each stretch of pavement cleared, we reclaim a little more of the world’s lost grace. Our journey is a testament to the power of small actions, the incremental changes that accumulate like the fallen leaves we gather in our bags. We become cartographers of the unseen, charting a course through the detritus of daily life, finding pathways where none thought to look.

As the morning wanes, our collection grows, a tangible measure of progress, and I am struck by the camaraderie that blooms in such shared endeavours. There’s laughter amidst the labour, stories exchanged over the clatter of cans and the flutter of wrappers. We are an unlikely trio, united by a common cause, and in this unity, I find hope. Hope that for every person who discards without thought, there will be someone who cares enough to follow, to pick up, to mend.

The sun rises, casting shadows that stretch out like fingers across our route, and I realise that we have wandered far from where we began. But there is no regret in this deviation, only the satisfaction of a morning spent in service to something greater than ourselves. We may have followed the rubbish, but in doing so, we have charted a course of our own, one marked by perseverance and the quiet dignity of work that seeks no reward but the act itself. And as we head home, our bags heavy with the weight of our efforts, I know that we have done something small but significant, a whisper of change in the grand narrative of the world.

The third law of litter picking, a rueful axiom of the task, whispered its truth; the refuse would await my return, steadfast in its place. It’s a peculiar kinship, that between the litter-picker and their quarry, a relationship defined by the constancy of the latter’s presence. The litter, once forsaken by thoughtless hands, clings to the earth with a stubbornness that mirrors our own indifference, a silent protest against the disregard we show our environment.

As I meandered through the familiar bends of The Crescent, the decision to veer onto the footpath leading to Allendale seemed almost instinctual, a silent call to the less trodden paths where the wild and the discarded intertwine. New Road, a stark divider between the manicured and the untamed, presented itself not just as a barrier but as a canvas of human neglect. Amidst the green, the blackened tyre and the scattered remnants of fly-tipping lay as testaments to the persistent presence of litter, a defiance of nature’s order.

The journey continued, New Road giving way to Mickledale Lane, where the first bag of rubbish found its end. The path back down Allendale was retraced, a loop of effort and intention bringing us back to the start. The Crescent awaited, unchanged yet subtly different, the flower beds a riotous display of nature’s resilience and human apathy. Weeds, triumphant in their conquest, vied with the detritus of consumption for dominion over the colours of spring. An old barbecue, repurposed by the elements, bloomed anew amidst the iron and plastic of shelving brackets, a garden of the discarded.

The day’s tally, two bags of refuse and a bag brimming with recyclables, stood as a testament to the effort, a small victory in the grand scheme. Yet, the satisfaction derived from the act of cleaning, of restoring order, was palpable. It was another day marked by the simple act of caring, a fantastic day indeed, where the value of public spaces was upheld by the few who choose to see beyond their own gardens. The litter may linger, but so does the resolve to combat it, one piece at a time.

BE A FRIEND TO THE EARTH