Post 369: Day 2 repairing bike. Day 5 on my body’s full power.
“Limitations” was all about doing stuff when you can but realising we 60-year-olds can’t re-charge fully any more; that’s without the cancer added to the mix.
Thank you for the lovely, kind and genuinely caring responses yesterday in my hour (or two) of need. I read them all and am so grateful for your help and support on my cancer path.
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I’ve been waiting for a parcel for days now and I know I’m not giving it a chance.
My nails have been long-ing (ha ha) for a right good clipping but, as I get older, I’m becoming ever more particular about things.
Years ago I bought two pairs of curved nail scissors at a local pharmacy. Well they disappeared a while back like they sprouted legs and took off; to where nobody knows.
So it’s time for a new pair. But not just any old pair.
A pair of British steel scissors.
It took a little while to find them online but the internet is a strange and confusing place these days.
The maker’s name was Whiteley and they had the all-important “Sheffield Steel” on their blades (see what I did there? I’m on fire today).
Note: The Blades are Sheffield United footie club’s sobriquet, or nickname for us common folk.
So they were wrapped up on Monday and made the journey south by carrier pigeon thereafter, I think.
Today the sky brought my small pair of English nail scissors and, after feeding the bird the usual pigeon seed and water, I released it homeward. After the pigeon had circled the house like it was winding up for the long haul back, eventually it set off northwards and disappeared.
God bless the pigeon post.
I was in my shed at the time and, before you all start hollering “why?!!!”, I will tell you.
I woke this morning to a lovely day as I had got up ready to help my Darling in her hour of need.
Last night, after dinner from the usual place, eating the usual food, she had the heeby-jeebies (a bug).
Every five minutes she was back in the little room downstairs for another runny discharge. This being the case I thought it wise to get up early and do the dutiful thing and ask her how she’d been overnight.
She replied, “ok thanks, I don’t need anything but a green tea.”
I said, “that’s why you’re ill, love”, and stood back just in case she could swing and reach me with her remaining strength.
I should add that to make my poorly Darling smile, I had donned a grey furry bed-suit type thing that only women/girls wear on holiday in the cooler months. This particular one was Jackie’s and was close to hand. Anyway I donned this one-size-fits-all top which did look comical due to it only just covering my bum.
Self-deprivation in the aid of a laugh in times of sadness.
It did make her smile and luckily didn’t want a twirl.
She wanted a green tea so I headed off downstairs and made a green one for her and a real one for me.
By the time the kettle boiled she was in the lounge getting comfy to watch 30 or so “Dead-Enders” episodes she’s behind with, on the huge lounge TV. I left her there with her G&T, and went back up. I needed to get this bloomin’ hilarious top off—hilarious to everyone but me. (Groan)
I thought I had better give the bike a miss today and keep an eye on my sickly love, so I got in the man-shed upstairs where my big Apple is in amongst the debris from Xmas and Easter.
Enough chocolate to keep me fat for the next year or so. I’m so lucky!
With another Anima request about to be unleashed to my GP surgery, I copied the cryptic reply to my Anima yesterday and pressed send on a reply to their reply (if you get what I’m saying). I’m guessing that try will reply in “Klingon” again.
After which I stayed-put in my comfy library chair — you know, the old ones that are semi-circular above a large seat on the usual chubby four legs.
Anyway I updated all my photos — in date order, off my iPhone, in month and year folders. Oh yes I’m a bit OCD but sorry, that’s just me. I’m a photo nut as well, so I have these folders going back to the very early 2000s In digital, but real photos folders going a long way back before that.
That didn’t keep me occupied for too long so I cleaned up my email folders. All 16 main folders and all the tens of sub-folders. Yep, organised chaos.
When that was done I had run out of jobs to do so I got dressed and cleaned my chocolatey teeth.
I went down and checked on the patient, who was trudging through the TV site she loved the best—leaving MAFSAU for “us” to watch later. Omg!
I still didn’t want breakfast but did now want to do a wee bit to the bike. I don’t know when little Bro wants his clutch lesson but currently I have a bike in a hundred pieces and it will only go back with the help of my fair hands (and long nails).
Without making much noise and keeping Mr V out of the kitchen I proceeded to get my red boiler suit on. It’s one of a pair of overalls that keep me warm and cleanish while I’m playing out or in the sheds.
My plan was simple. Do one task and then come in. It was after eleven so my next pills at midday would be the end of play.
The bike had, I decided, leaked petrol over my boots because of the detritus in the petrol tank. So it needed a clean.
I looked around for a container big enough and easy enough to tip the petrol into, then I could strain the fluid and chuck it back in.
Always before an op like this I’ve thought it through time and time again in my mind to come up with a plan that’s gonna get the job done and not kill anyone or set the shed ablaze. It went like a dream (a super dream obviously).
The fact I had got the petrol cleaned and it’s still not pill time—I decided to make space in the shed for the upcoming repairs to the bike. Putting it back together.
The winter stuff had to come out to give me elbow room. I got the desired space and proceeded to flip the canister I had the petrol in and use that as a carb table, then move the bike over a bit, which was harder than I thought.
This gave me more room to operate on the said carbs.
The pill alarm went off and I stopped for a breakfast of flakes and muesli as per usual even if it was midday.
My back was ok and I felt like i should do a bit more in the shed. While I was sitting having a wee rest Little Bro call me. He was ok and he would probably come down to get boots and gloves and have a little play with the bike on Friday. Ok, I said and knew that I needed to push on with the repairs.
I promise that all I wanted earlier on was to prepare the bike for tomorrow’s repairs but no sooner had I finished my crunchy nuts than I had snuck back out for more bike mechanics.
I beavered away till two more hours had gone and more pills were needed.
The same happened again. I had no sooner got the pills down than I was back outside beside the nearly repaired bike.
It wasn’t long before all sense of time and prudence was overtaken by a petrolhead’s excitement and obsession of breathing life into my baby.
Petrol, check.
Oil, check.
Choke, check.
Sparks, check.
Battery, check.
Keys, check.
So came the moment of buzzing excitement in that twist of the throttle and pull of the choke, and splutter, splutter, stop.
More choke, check.
Vrooooom, vrooooom.
IT’S ALIVE!!!
There is nothing better than hearing an engine work after a rebuild of some kind.
Bless it, it’s ready for my little Bro.
Oh, I had better replace the DOT 4 in the front brake because it’s now spongy. So that’s on my mental list of things to do before Friday’s visit by little bro.
Just in the nick of time I’m done, and I feel absolutely knackered.
Knackered but beyond happy in what I’ve achieved.
Some say I’m bonkers but I’m just as bonkers as my mates that, at the beginning of the week, I figured I’d need some of their help, but now too see the photos on our WhatsApp group and smile, relieved that they don’t need to spare their time to help me. Ha ha.
What a week I’m having.
Who knows where this energy came from, or how long it’ll last. But I love it.
My Darling had the kitchen smelling like a Sunday roast sort of a day and, after pulling off my boots and overalls with the last drops of strength, I washed up my grubby hands and found out it was a special roast dinner.
My Darling had not recovered fully but I noticed her lamb shank had disappeared as fast as my pie.
Happy days.
Lastly, to the Whiteley, England scissors that arrived, sending a quiver of fear up my fingers.
Very happy days.
Take care now
Sleep well, I will
