Digging It

I spent this afternoon asleep on the couch in the living room.

This is not a rare occurrence. At some stage over the last few years my metabolism decided that what I needed most on a weekend afternoon was a bit of a sit-down and a nice nap, so each Saturday and Sunday I turn on a football match, rest my eyes for a couple of seconds, then turn on the news two hours later to find out who won. This is either a sign of advancing age, or I don’t actually like football as much as I think I do.

Today’s doze, though, was the well-earned sleep of the honest labourer. Last night’s return of the bloody snow meant that our driveway and the footpath outside our house were again a white blanket of lethalness, and in a burst of community spirit that surprised me more than anyone I went out and cleared them.

We live in a corner house so the footpath goes around the side of the garden to a little lane into the next estate, so there was quite a lot of sweeping involved, followed by a lot of hacking at the icy parts that refused to be swept, all the while with the seven dwarves’ “Hi-ho” song going on in my head. I went out wearing the hated beanie hat, gloves, a long scarf, a hoodie, a coat and these badass boots that I bought on Friday so that I won’t have to slide along on my bum from now till Christmas. As I worked the hat came off first, then then the gloves then the scarf and finally the coat, and the hoodie only stayed on because I realised I was wearing an I♥NY T-shirt with Betty Boop on it in biker gear that I thought was really cool when I bought it but I find that I haven’t the nerve to wear in public.

I arrived back in after two hours glowing, feeling macho and neanderthal. I felt the urge to shoot a mammoth with a flint-tipped spear. I felt the urge to eat a Yorkie bar. I felt the urge to put on a plaid shirt, get my toolbox and put up some shelves.

I did none of these things, because there are no mammoths in Greystones, eating a Yorkie is like biting into a concrete block and I own neither a plaid shirt nor a toolbox. So instead I gave into my fourth urge, which was to have a bit of a sit-down and a nice nap.

That was two hours ago, and I’m now fighting off a fifth urge, which is to roll around on the floor moaning in pain. My arms ache, my calves ache, the palms of my hands ache and for some reason the right cheek of my arse aches.

I bet it snows overnight.


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