After an appalling night’s sleep last night, I woke this morning to an arthritic flare. It’s not all that unusual as the summer winds down, and it will settle down in due course, but it’s a real nuisance and I’ve been very sorry for myself all day. Consequently I haven’t done much other than sit in a moody heap, but R had errands to run in Stratford this morning, so I tagged along and cheered myself up a little with a huge slab of raspberry and chocolate flapjack in Boston Tea Party – all those luscious ingredients must have done me some good, surely? I just have to avert my mind from the question of calories, because stress is bad for the joints.
We stopped at Waitrose on the way home so that I could buy these flowers, and were amused to discover the place overrun with bikers, down from the Bulldog Bash at Long Marston to stock up on ciabatta, olives, and other necessities. Rather charmingly, a couple of them (clad in the full studded leather over threatening t-shirts) were trying to use the self-service checkout next to mine, and making just as complete a horlicks of it as any elderly Stratford matron; in the end an assistant had to take over and ring their groceries through for them. It’s nice to know that incompetence spans all age, ethnic and social groupings.
Back at home I did some Gumby flower arranging, and then a little emergency dusting so that I could post a photo containing the mantelshelf without wilting in shame.
And now I’m off to bed. Tomorrow (she said, through gritted teeth) will be better.