So, I’m supposed to be yearning but right
now, I feel full of gratitude. I suppose I could muster a yearn. Let’s see.
I am grateful for the guidance, expertise
and deft fingers of Simone, the osteopath who is treating me at the moment.
She’s lovely, immensely knowledgeable and very good at what she does. She
operates out of a small therapy room in her home. I suppose that if I were to
wish to yearn, I could ache to find a calling for my life that fits me as
glovily as hers fits her. She’s a yoga teacher too. She has a skeleton
suspended from a hook in its head. She has a rubber spine to hand. I’m a little
bit taken with anatomy and physiology, so perhaps I can even rack up some
jealousy. Nah. Not jealousy. A bit of inspiration, perhaps. And thanks to her
(and Esther Lilley Harvey, from afar) I have committed to 21 days of yoga from
tomorrow (8th May) until Tuesday 29th at least. Week by
week, perhaps I can return to my austere start to the year and cut out
caffeine, sugar, eating after 9pm. It suited me, that did.
Ah, ah, you see. I yearn for a lean yoga
body and a ski-slope cheek landscape. I yearn for a core so taut it can deflect
bullets. I’d like to be chilled like a yogi too. And to be able to do
headstands.
The lady on the train today was delightful.
She smiled, laughed, changed my ticket with no extra charge. She eclipsed the
somewhat shoddy railway staff I had encountered today – the man who sold me my
ticket, bristling with irritation. Customers are idiots – that’s what was
coming off him like steam. And then a string of people who couldn’t be bothered
to think about my question of the quickest way to get to my destination. Then a
couple of people did help, and I had the good fortune to land on Jean’s train.
She had a beautiful face, like the mother from The Railway Children, but older.
Fabulous crows’ feet and a gentle, witty buzz.
I love Jessica Loudon and her family. They
are great. Of course I can yearn for what they have – their delicious boys,
their laughter, their lives – but I’m just glad they have them. Mine isn’t
going to be the same, wouldn’t be even if I had what they have. We’re
different. My version, whatever it might be, will be itself.
 |
| Archie is a male version of this dog. Doleful. Sweet. Solid. |
Same with Sue and Mark and Amy. I loved how
welcoming and seemingly happy to see me their vintage Staffie, Archie, was to
see me. I love a dog that lets itself be petted and doesn’t even mind a kiss or
a raspberry on the forehead. And it is a delight – an absolute delight – to see
these people. I love them. They are mighty, mighty, mighty good eggs, all. We
did very proper accents later this evening, and imagined Amy as a debutante. I
cursed her. I put upon her that tomorrow, aged 15, she would wake to find
herself able to communicate only with the diction and language of a Jane Austen
character. Forget Freaky Friday. Poshvoice rocks! We laughed a lot.
So yearning comes harder today, but I
suppose I do yearn for newness. I suppose I do.
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