Try refreshing the page to ensure you are enjoying the latest version. I tend to make endless edits and corrections over time. Forgive the sometimes off-topic nature of my blog these days. Walking and enjoying the countryside are vital to my physical and psychological fitness and sense of well-being. They combine to undo the damage caused by an occasional excess of cycling. And, may even stave off another rant! Though I can't promise anything. My long-suffering wife, "The Head Gardener," refers to me as the Imelda Marcos of saddles and saddlebags. She is usually right about almost everything. So it may well be true.

30 May 2016

30th May 2016 Getting a [real] man in.


Monday 30th 63F, 17C, windy from the east with increasing cloud cover. It should brighten up and be rather warm, but also rather windy, this afternoon. It's taking a bit of a chance starting a new post with only two days to go before May shuffles offstage. What will I find to talk about? I keep trying to probe my calf to find the exact source of the pain but it remains diffuse. Pain makes me feel old and vulnerable. But I will not be vulnerable! 

I am the one who heads off into the woods on solitary explorations without a qualm. Nor least doubt as to my ability to return unscathed from leaping vast chasms. Or fighting through endless bramble patches without so much as penknife let alone a machete. I am the "road warrior" who sets off on his ridiculous chariot rides to the other side of the island simply because he can. [When I am allowed out by The Head Gardener of course.] 

After a lifetime of lifting foolishly heavy objects, without strain, I suddenly "got a bad back" quite recently. One so painful that it stopped my self-inflicted heroics for over a week. Though I made a full recovery and feel far more flexible than I ever did before. No pain without gain! It still gives one pause. Imagine being stuck miles from home with the sudden onset of some unforeseen minor injury? These sorts of things are not supposed to happen to the hero of his own modern legends. He who has solo climbed, self-imposed mountains in every avenue of interest which casually brushed his imagination into some new conflagration.

Having to "get a man in" to do something minor to the house has never occurred before. He who owns all the ladders and all the tools does not easily bow to some "humble builder" to fix some trifle on the roof. The roof which this life story's very own superhero built himself working entirely alone after the Great Storm of '99. Or having "somebody in" to cut down the tree which threatens The Trike Shed during every ferocious sou-westerly which Denmark can throw at it. 

"Getting a man in" is not part of the hero's vocabulary in English. Let alone in pidgin Danish. It would be like handing my camera to a complete stranger and asking his to photograph the landscape. It just isn't done when you are the hero of your own, never-ending fable. I do not go lightly into my own sunset. Playing the old fart is not in my nature. An old clown perhaps, but clowning comes naturally to one who has never looked down. No abyss too deep to limit his endless dreams with mere cowardice. Failure was never an option in his own eyes. He prevailed and kept his suffering largely to himself. 

Only The Head Gardener knew the real truth. Knew how to measure the man in frail, human terms. Knew all his Achilles heels and much more besides. If only he had kept his mouth shut and played the invincible superhero to the bitter end. Superheroes have no need of pretty nurses with sticking plasters and elastic bandages and sun cream and Tea Tree oil and medical advice gleaned from the internet! The "love interest" in any film fantasy is only supposed to be decorative. Placed there by casting, only to give the superhero a chance to talk about his exploits and his feelings. As they both stare off into some unimaginably distant vista with moist, blue eyes.