What, you may ask, is a PP?
A PP lolls on the couch all day long (even though it isn’t good for him) doing bugger-all. A PP issues vague instructions about the food he thinks he can ingest, leaving his carer to turn these utterances into dishes that are bland but somehow stimulating, novel but not disturbing, simple but not childish. A PP hardly ever goes upstairs other than to bed. A PP always gets first crack at The Guardian’s quick crossword. A PP’s drinking-water bottle is refilled as if by magic.
In social status a PP resembles a pasha of Old Turkey lacking only a punka-wallah to agitate the ceiling fan and disperse sick-room odours.
What tasks must a PP now face? The car has remained in the garage since the day of the op, December 21, since I am forbidden its use as a driver for six weeks. Its electrics need testing. Yet I am the only person on the planet who can reverse it through the garage door (only an inch or two wider than the car itself) without scratching the paintwork. Just into the driveway you understand.**
Unload the online grocery order from Sainsburys. And withstand the disappointment of “Unavailable Items”.
Wash up. (ie, resume my long-standing obligatory duties chez RR)
Mastermind the garbage and trash disposal preparations.
Start reading again instead of gazing vacantly at television.
Examine my stomach (externally) in a mirror for blank spaces (among the red dots) where the anti-clotting agent needle may be inserted.
Take advantage of the fact that my singing voice still exists and chant lustily.
** Started in a second
Huge relief about the car. Some things, at least are reliable.
ReplyDeletePB: In the often times a car battery that lasted five years (like this one) would have needed constant topping up with distilled water and all sorts of other mothercoddling. Remarkable, really.
DeleteLook on the pluses, RR. You still have your singing voice. You can still go upstairs. You can still manoevre the Skoda (and drive it again soon). You have started to read again. You have the Guardian quick crossword to yourself (why not try the cryptic variety too).
ReplyDeleteAnd you are still here to delight us all.
Avus: Used to do the cryptic in The Times (later The Guardian) during the post-USA period in 1972 when for about six months I commuted from Folkestone to Waterloo. It was mainly a matter of recognising the different styles of the various setters and adopting their mindset. Eventually it became entirely wearisome. On a good day (ie, yesterday) I can do the Quick in about six minutes, purely as a reminder that I'm still in the land of the living. Occasionally - because the clues are often shockingly imprecise - it can take far, far longer. However, I prefer these odds.
DeleteThe idea of backing a car out of your garage with only inches to spare fills me with trepidation. As for your PP status, I imagine every day you feel a little better. Convalescing is a vacation of sorts. A time to let go and heal. I hope you are milking it for all it's worth.
ReplyDeleteColette: Prepare for even greater trepidation. On top of the narrow clearances it is also necessary to inject the shallowest of shallow curves during the final 3 m of the trajectory. A vital detail: leave the passenger-side mirror extended so that it can be visually brought as near as possible to the (judiciously carpeted) rh wall of the garage. Fold in the driver-side mirror to take full advantage of the few microns of space the garage door opening allows. Got that?
DeleteAmazing that you've never forgotten to fold the mirror...
ReplyDeleteVery glad lusty chanting begins again...