365 Days Later

A year ago today I folded away my Belgian life and got on a train.  Under normal circumstances I might have been settling quite well into a London rediscovered, friendships newly picked-up.  But these are not normal circumstances.  I've now being doing my current job for longer at home than I did in the office.  Apart from the obvious shift in location there's been a huge shift in the nature of my work, and not for the better.  I imagine many of us have experienced that.

One thing that has become clear is that for all the well-being mailings we have received from Work, the only person who is going to mind me is me.  Various health conditions, none of which are particularly threatening alone, have decided to form a gang and make life really quite shit.  So I'm getting up early, doing gentle pilates, and a bit of spiritual stuff before the buttered toast.  Drinking vastly less wine, vastly more water.  Trying to bung in a bit more pilates later in the day.  Eating a reasonable amount of veg. Trying to sit properly (I've discovered that the lateral hip pain that has bugged me for a year may be due to sitting with my legs splayed and feet tucked back under the chair).  Taking breaks and fiddling with plants and beads during the day.  Watching Tom Cruise films.  Nothing revolutionary but it helps.  Small gentle things.  

Perfect health is not really a destination as you get older.  I'm not going to wake up one day in excellent fettle.  But if some things can be mitigated or undone, that is progress along the road.

So one year on, any regrets?  That's hard to answer.  I had to come back to the UK, it was a compelling feeling.  Whether in retrospect it was the wisest decision remains to be seen.  At the moment it feels a bit like living in a poorly directly horror movie.

The Comfort of Strangers

I've developed two minor obsessions during lockdown: one is Tom Cruise and the other is the Reddit relationship advice boards.

The Tom Cruise thing is not your standard crush.  It's more that he feels like a safe pair of hands, if you put the slightly odd faith to one side.  COVID-style life feels so unwieldy and unceasingly stressful that you just think "Tom would know what to do."  Indeed, he's negotiated with the UK Government to continue shooting on his latest film, even though the industry is pretty much shut down.  Because he's Tom Cruise and no-one's going to say no.

He sends his co-stars birthday gifts, year after year.  He not only stops for traffic collisions but pays people's hospital bills.  Most people who have worked with him say he's a really good bloke.  He's probably an utter nightmare to live with but, fortunately, I don't have to.

I've never had the Rapunzel syndrome thing where rescue is to be desired.  If I were Rapunzel I'd weave ropes from hair and abseil down the tower.  I've got my own set of Allen keys and can handle stuff.  But just occasionally you want someone to say "It's OK, I've got this".  The world just feels like a safer place with Tom in it.  No idea why, especially given that he'll sit on top of the Burj Khalifa for a laugh.

The Reddit relationship advice boards are the other extreme.  I am reluctantly drawn to the drama of other people's lives.  They get some wonderful advice and one woman in a particularly horrific situation was offered money and transport by strangers, so she could leave.  It's both heartening and distressing simultaneously. 

I suppose what these things have in common is the management of situations and the setting of life back to a benign neutrality.  And we kind of need that now.  A nice, warm, friendly neutrality.

The other night I dreamed of being in Tom's bed (on my own, naturally).  It was all pale and expensive, with a ridiculously fluffy duvet.  I spilled a whole cup of black coffee and he just said it was fine, put everything in the laundry.

Finger Food

I've been up and down to the Royal Free so many times recently that they are likely to name a wing after me soon.  Nothing particularly serious, just this slow-to-heal finger.  I take particular delight in the fact that when asked to show it, there is almost no option but to swear.  Although it's American swearing, so slightly ersatz.  Although one might argue that the middle finger has taken the place of flicking the Vs, much-beloved of those in the UK over a certain age.  There is nothing quite as casually contemptuous as a lazy V flick.

After clinic, x-ray and clinic, I was desperate for cheap starchy refreshment.  They've got a cafe but with all the distancing lark, the queue was huge.  I put desperation on hold until Paddington, where I had clocked there was a Pret open.  Paddington is still very odd, lots of staff in bright pink gilets hanging about, but few travellers.  With my first shop-bought coffee in months I sat on a station bench and shovelled down a slightly burned Danish pastry.  The coffee was nothing to write home about but it signified a world outside still functioning, albeit behind perspex and without seating.

It takes nine minutes to travel from Paddington to Ealing.  On a wall just out of Paddington Station is the instruction EAT DA RICH.  No recipes given, mind you.