Hiss Of Death*

5.29pm and I’m on my bike at the gym.  Achieved a long walk this morning and am exhausted but it’s a beautiful day and am capitalising on this by staying out-of-the-house for a bit longer.

“And you’ve got to lose a stone,” the panther says.  He’s stretched out in front of the window, watching the pigeons, seagulls and parakeets fly past.  All the birds are making the most of this autumn evening too.

“It’s not just that,” I say.  “It cheers me up to be here.  Better than lying around the flat with you and…”

“You’ve broken our television, you fat stupid creature,” the panther says.  “And you can’t even manage to purchase a remote control.  It’s unbelievable.  You’re thirty six years old and you can’t do a simple thing like…”

“I can,” I say.  “And I will.”  I’m not certain about this.  It’s one of those things that ought to be simple, but I seem to have a mental block about it.  But if I want the television to recover, that’s the obvious first step: to see whether the problem is the remote or the TV itself.  Really would prefer Seb or my brother or my Dad to deal with this but seem to be going through the TV’s terminal illness alone.  We are suffering our terminal illnesses together with no-one to care for us. Life is cruel.

As soon I’ve achieved thirty minutes cycling, and written this, am going to lift some big weights.  Put my leg press up to 130kg the other day and legs hurt, but in a good way.  When I’m lifting weights all my problems melt away: the part of me that isn’t good enough for Seb, that can’t cope with life, just vanishes.  Am lucky to have found my exercise.

When Seb calls tonight will be able to tell him that went for a walk, attended a lunch party and went to the gym.  It probably doesn’t sound like much, but I’ve really had to push myself to achieve all this.  Am proud of myself.

The attached photo is the fluffy monster at rest.

Happy Sunday everyone!
*2011.  By Rita Mae Brown.  A Mrs Murphy mystery.