Car Parts, Dog Bites and Hospitals

Saturday, 20th April 2024

Early Morning

Ah, the enigma of Saturdays, a day that holds a myriad of possibilities for the industrious soul and yet, for the retired, it is but a mere continuation of the tapestry of our leisurely days, distinguished only by the ebb and flow of traffic and the liveliness of the populace. I, too, greeted the dawn with a sense of wonder, as the frost kissed the earth and the sun cast its rejuvenating rays upon the world. The dogs and ventured forth to the ‘poop troop’ into the crisp morn, our spirits buoyed by the sheer brilliance of the day.

As we ambled past Crompton Park, an advertisement caught my eye, heralding the arrival of a fair the following weekend. Memories of the previous year’s festivities, which we had missed due to a sojourn in the sun-baked embrace of Mata, stirred within me. The anticipation of the fair’s cacophony and the curiosity about the disruption it would bring to our tranquil existence filled me with a peculiar blend of excitement and trepidation.

Amidst these musings, I was beset by an unwelcome guest – pain, which clutched at my hands and wrists with a relentless grip. In search of solace, I have turned to dihydrocodeine, that semi-synthetic siren whose call promised respite from my afflictions. Paramol, the over-the-counter variant, became my chosen companion, offering a nocturnal reprieve that aided my quest for slumber. Yet, as the day wore on, I discovered an unintended consort in drowsiness, a side effect perhaps amplified by the Methotrexate I take to combat the insidious psoriatic arthritis that seeks to lay claim to my joints.

In this state of somnolence, I pondered the dual nature of medication – a balm for the physical ailments that plague us, yet not without its own set of chains. It is a delicate balance we strike in our pursuit of relief, a dance with chemistry and biology that we must navigate with care and consideration. For now, I shall continue to embrace this Saturday, with all its potential and peculiarities, as I journey through the ever-unfolding narrative of life.

Car Parts

This Saturday I made a return The Raucous with the dogs, that verdant boundary by the Bilsthorpe Football ground, I embarked upon a solitary quest of litter retrieval. For a span of three hours, I engaged in a ballet of stooping and reaching, the fruits of which were three sacks brimming with the detritus of modernity, a collection of shattered vehicular remnants, a forsaken vacuum cleaner, and a separate cache of recyclable materials. The automotive fragments, I surmise, were likely jettisoned in a moment of vehicular distress, their presence in the underbrush a testament to the urgency of their abandonment. Yet, the rationale that compels a soul to deposit a domestic contrivance amidst nature’s embrace eludes me entirely.

As I delved deeper into the thicket, I unearthed numerous polyethylene carcasses, their surfaces kissed by the elements, now brittle and fragmented. Despite my most diligent efforts, these remnants would fracture at the slightest provocation, their minuscule shards joining the invisible legion of microplastics that haunt our environment. The day’s exertions, while arduous, brought a peculiar satisfaction, a sense of order restored to a small parcel of our shared earth.

Yet, as lunch approached and I prepared to depart, I was struck by a sudden realization. In my zeal, I had forsaken a pail, my trusty companion in this endeavour, now ensnared amidst the brambles. A silent admonition arose within me, a reminder to reclaim what was mine. Alas, the passage of time and the gathering of my canine companions distracted me, and that humble vessel remains there still, a curious monument to human forgetfulness amidst the wilds.

Thus, as I pen these words, a day removed from the incident, I reflect upon the irony of my actions. In my pursuit to cleanse the land of refuse, I myself have contributed to it, albeit inadvertently. It stands as a poignant reminder of our imperfections, the fallibility that weaves through the tapestry of our noblest intentions. Mayhap on the morrow, I shall return to retrieve my forsaken bucket, to restore completeness to my efforts, and to ensure that my legacy in that hedgerow is not one of clutter, but of care and respect for the delicate balance of nature.

Dog Bites

Upon my return to the esteemed Hive Five, a curious encounter unfolded with Letterman-(4), who was at the helm of a canine most peculiar, whose antics bore a striking resemblance to the infamous Rascal. With Michael and Chyna in tow, I maintained a cautious distance, observing Letterman’s struggle with the dog’s harness. Summoned to lend assistance, I discovered the dog, christened Buddy, ensnared in his own leash, a veritable Gordian knot. My attempts to extricate him were met with an unwelcome nip, a dubious token of canine camaraderie. Yet, undeterred by the sting of betrayal, I uttered words of comfort, liberating Buddy from his tangled prison and securing him anew within his harness.

Michael, ever the inquisitive soul, approached to investigate the cause of our delay. Contrary to Letterman’s dire predictions, Buddy displayed no malice towards him. In a twist most astonishing, they forged a bond, much to Letterman’s bewilderment. Alas, with Buddy’s timid nature, such newfound friendships are as delicate as morning dew, and thus, before the fragile peace could shatter, we bid adieu, leaving the promise of future camaraderie hanging in the balance of another day’s chance encounter.

Hospitals

In the quiet repose of the afternoon, following a repast prawns and halloumi I took another dose of dihydrocodeine, I found myself ensconced in the gentle embrace of slumber. The erstwhile agony that had been my constant companion dissipated, leaving in its wake a curious sensation of tingles within my hands, a testament to the pain’s lingering memory. With the steadfast support of my dear companion M, we ventured into the verdant embrace of our garden, engaging in sundry tasks as a bulwark against the encroaching drowsiness.

It is oft my experience that the somnolent lure that follows the midday meal can be vanquished through the vigour of activity. Yet, the potent analgesic rendered this daily contest akin to the formidable obstacles of the Grand National. Indeed, the journey to the hospital, a mere half-hour by carriage, found me succumbing to the soporific effects once more, drifting in and out of consciousness even as I awaited my appointment in the clinic.

I was present for an examination most peculiar – a nerve conduction study – to ascertain the origins of the persistent paraesthesia that plagues my left hand. As I pen these words, amidst the ambient sounds of youth at play in the nearby Skate Park, my left hand is alight with a peculiar effervescence. It is not an unpleasant sensation, yet I am acutely aware that should it persist, it may herald a future where my hand’s dexterity is compromised.

The procedure was an odd ballet of science, where small electrical currents danced across my hands and digits, eliciting involuntary twitches and spasms. The revelation was thus: my right hand bears no malady save for the arthritis previously identified, but the nerves of my left hand suffer under the duress of constriction, as they traverse the narrow passage of my elbow.

The technician, a scribe of the modern age, shall document these findings, and it seems surgery may be the prescribed course to forestall the deterioration of this condition. One cannot help but ponder the marvels of contemporary medicine, where electricity unveils the hidden maladies within, and the prospect of surgery holds the promise of restored vitality. Such are the wonders and tribulations of the human corpus, a delicate machine, both resilient and vulnerable in equal measure.

Onwards to Hive Five

Ah, the Saturday conundrum, a day of rest for some, a day of toil for others, yet for many, a day of inquiry and reflection. It is on this day, oft considered the week’s own denouement, that one may find themselves engaged in the noble pursuit of knowledge, only to discover that each answer unveils a further layer of questions, much like the peeling of an onion, revealing not the core, but the essence of endless curiosity. Indeed, what is Saturday for, if not to embrace the labyrinthine journey of the intellect?

As I traversed the aisles of Tesco Jubilee, my mind adrift in contemplation, I could not help but ponder the cyclical nature of our existence. Each item we place into the recycling bin, a testament to our perpetual struggle against the tide of waste and wanton disregard for our fragile orb. The soft plastics, once cradling our goods, now lay dormant, awaiting rebirth into new forms, much like the phoenix rising from the ashes. And what of the clothes, tenderly worn and now relinquished to the Salvation Army? They stand as silent witnesses to the lives we’ve led, the moments we’ve cherished, and the change we hope to see in the world.

In this act of recycling, there lies a profound truth, a microcosm of life’s grand tapestry. Each thread we weave, each garment we cast aside, speaks to the impermanence of material possessions and the enduring spirit of human generosity. For is it not in giving that we receive? Is it not in the surrender of the old that we make room for the new? Saturday, with its unspoken promise of potential, offers us the canvas upon which we may paint our aspirations, our duties, and our quests for understanding.

Thus, as the sun sets on this day of Saturn, I am reminded of the inexorable passage of time and the ceaseless quest for meaning that defines our existence. What is Saturday for, indeed, if not for the contemplation of such mysteries? It is a day to pause, to reflect, and to prepare for the morrow, armed with the knowledge that each action we take, no matter how small, is a stitch in the fabric of the universe, a note in the symphony of life. And so, with a heart full of questions and a soul yearning for answers, I embrace the enigma that is Saturday, ever hopeful for the revelations that the next turn of the Earth may bring.

KEEP LITTER OUT OF NATURE