Sorry my blog is late this week; the dog ate my
time. Not a real dog, you understand. I refer to the Black Dog of
depression. Although, I suppose in the great scheme of metaphorical
things, my Black Dog is actually a rather grubby white puppy, having about him
more of distraction than destruction.
It started with the snow last week. Having
forbidden my co-workers to clear the ice-packed car park, I went and shovelled
it up myself. Stupid! The niggling ache in my back became worse as
the day progressed, and next morning I couldn't move. Well, I could,
but neither swiftly nor with style. Sitting down was fine. Walking
around was fine, after about ten minutes. It was the bit in between that
was all wrong - rather like the mid-point in the transition between human and
werewolf, but with more groaning.
I didn't take time off work, believing that
trying to keep moving would help me recover sooner. Also, I had an
appointment at the hairdresser's on Thursday, and the guilt I would have felt
at going there while 'sick' would have been severe. I decided it would be
sensible to forgo my usual 'feet up and massager on' routine (the chairs
at that salon are truly wonderful) but I still got stuck after
leaning back for the wash, and the poor woman had to pull me up. This was
a little worrying, as my hairdresser is quite small, and the chairs are on a
raised platform. My giggling at the comic potential of the situation
didn't help, but fortunately she didn't fall off the edge.
By Monday I'd pretty much recovered my usual
mobility, but I was still feeling drained and irritable. A bad day at work
finished me off, I'm afraid, and I spent the evening weeping into my
wine. However, I went to the supermarket tonight, which
rapidly put my problems into perspective and cheered me up no end.
