Post 110: Rest and Lionesses.
Only occasionally does a sporting occasion go the way you’d like—but when it does, it feels really good.
———
The night was uncomfortable again—best not to dwell on it. I’d intended to stay in bed all day for two reasons:
1. It was Sunday and we had nothing planned, so why not.
2. The coming week was hopefully going to involve some outings, and if that was to happen, I needed to rest and shift the pain.
As the day wore on, the rest-plan began to work its quiet magic. By late afternoon, when the Women’s European Cup Final kicked off, the big-pains had subsided, leaving only the more manageable little-aches.
I had imprisoned myself with the upstairs TV and the odd Sudoku puzzle as my cell mates. I’ve not worked out if TV it does live programming—there’s no proper aerial, so I didn’t even try. It might be possible via the digital channels, but I was happy enough streaming various shows in my little hideaway.
One standout series was a recommendation from my daughter-in-law:
Agatha Christie: Lucy Worsley on the Mystery Queen.
I thoroughly enjoyed part one. It focused on young Agatha’s life during what I consider one of the most fascinating periods ever—1910 to 1930. Not only was she a debutante, but she came out not in London’s stuffy, expensive social scene, but in Cairo—parading around ancient wonders under the proud eyes of the British ex-pats. It was less expensive and the added bonus was the sights and smells of Egypt - a theme she would come to use in her writing.
That era, with its awkward but always-hopeful explorers like Howard Carter, and the glorious rise of Art Deco, is just perfect to me.
Agatha’s life was shaped by a warm, home-schooled upbringing, and the Great War, which began when she was 24. Like many women of the time, she was pushed into working life nursing in the VAD’s and found love with a handsome pilot.
Lucy Worsley’s series is well worth a watch. Just a warning 
️—there are spoilers, as it delves into a few plotlines to explain how Christie revolutionised the genre, introducing techniques that were initially frowned upon but later became iconic.
My interest in writing has only properly blossomed recently. I didn’t even become an avid reader until my fifties, when I finally saw the point of novels. History books and biographies still bore me stiff (all those dates and names), but ten years of reading—and listing every book I’ve read (yes, I know, it’s a bit OCD)—has brought a quiet sense of pride.
Now, as someone with the scatterbrained energy of Toad of Toad Hall, I find myself wanting to write my blog that keep people engaged—not boring them with rambling side-thoughts and useless trivia. I know my weaknesses, especially from the many gaps left by a school experience I’d rather forget. But now? Now I want to get better. It my new mania.
I’m not sure how to find the help in need, but once I figure it out, I’ll expand on it properly here in the space that’s becoming my home.
———
While Lucy W guided me through Agatha’s early years, I became aware that the big match downstairs wasn’t going as hoped. I could tell from the tone of My Darling’s voice—shouting encouragement through the TV—that the Lionesses were struggling.
She wears her heart on her sleeve when watching any sport. Her favourites are the Irish games—Gaelic football and Hurling, rarely seen here in Blighty—but also tennis, rugby, and football.
At half-time, the doorbell rang. A takeout had arrived. My Darling had ordered my favourite guilty pleasure for two reasons:
1. To treat me without having to slave away in the kitchen.
2. To move things along digestion-wise, if you catch my drift.
The veggie kebab is a glorious mess of grilled veg, cold salad, and chilli sauce, all stuffed into a increasingly soggy pitta. It’s smelly, messy—and magic. And yes, it did the trick later, exactly as planned.
As the second half kicked off, my lap full of takeaway joy, the Lionesses equalised with a sharp, well-taken goal. By the time I’d finished, we were in extra time, but the girls looked spent. The other team gained the upper hand again, and it was a nervy 30 minutes until the whistle blew.
Penalties.
Instead of hiding, I watched every kick. The shootout ended in elation for one side and heartbreak for the other.
What a thrilling way to win.
What a cruel way to lose.
Golden ticker-tape exploded, the trophy was lifted, and tears flowed from both sides—for very different reasons.
Well done, girls - both teams.
Later, I snuggled next to My Darling to watch a few more episodes of Love in the Kitchen, and miraculously, my back held out. Between the full rest day and the heavy-duty meds, I felt almost human again.
Eventually, I grew tired and left My Darling to her Love Island catch-up. With a gentle hug and a sloppy kiss, I climbed the stairs to continue my recovery. Here’s hoping Monday brings enough relief for me to join the world of the “normal people” again—
(“Do what normal people do…” Yes, I hear you, Pulp.)
I’m ready and willing—and hopefully, able. The week is nearly afoot.
Only four days until my MRI results and mid-chemo check-in phone call.
Looking on the bright side:
I’m well enough to enjoy a few days of delight with My Darling.
The Bus trundles on. I’m going with the flow.
