Post 490: A walk too far & Dahlia’s in the jar.
A massive plate of halloumi salad arrived at my table and was put down in front of me. The other side of the table, my old work colleague and good friend sat opposite, and his plate was a huge Spanish omelette, with chips and beans.
The lunch out was a chance to chat, but the noise in the café was too much to bear, so we did what we could with our plates and choices, but only spoke rarely and even then nothing particularly interesting or exciting.
We did our best to clean the plates of food but, in my case, I had half the salad left as we stood to leave.
I’m not sure why I couldn’t eat more, but I haven’t produced a stool for a few days and maybe I’m actually full up, quite literally.
As we walked back to the car park I could see that the large van was gone, and I wondered how much room I’d have to open my driver’s door.
As it was, I had enough, but my pal insisted on holding the door away from the replacement for the van and, as I squeezed into the driver’s seat, I’m sure I squeezed his hand unintentionally as I pulled my legs into the large footwell.
That’s one of the reasons I have a Blue Badge, but it’s not always the case that you can get a disabled parking space.
Ah well, what can I do?
It’s not worth moaning.
I drove home and dropped the car off, then strode off with my mate for a walk, a little circuit that would give us time to breathe and chat.
“Look at the time,” I said as we walked away from the house.
I had looked at my watch to set the walking app off, which would monitor the walk, and realised the time.
It was only three-quarters of an hour until my Big Sis arrived to enjoy her lunch.
I didn’t need any more food, but I can talk for England. Ha ha.
The walk was a good idea and, on my terms, I would guide us around the block, including a spell along the old railway track, now a Sustrans walking and cycleway: The Cuckoo Trail.
It’s named after the stretch of 10.5 miles of Mr Beeching’s railway branch line that was axed in 1968, when I was a little boy of four.
We set off at a good pace — at my pace — and I started to wax lyrical about us, him and I, having regular walks as a form of exercise and perhaps even as a hobby.
We both agreed and set ourselves a little twice-weekly “meet-up wander”.
The only problem was that as we turned left onto the Cuckoo Trail we encountered a slight gradient upwards, which ordinarily I would get up and along easily.
But as we gained height, my breathing became laboured and fast.
So much so that I had to stop walking completely to recover my breath.
It took a few minutes and, when I was ready, we carried on.
From then on we stopped regularly and sat for a chat on a well-used wooden bench seat.
I was all the time with a mate who’s been a driver of ambulances for years and has a great understanding of the human body and first aid — if you’re allowed to call it that these days.
He only told me about my blue lips later, when we got closer to home.
We arrived after a walk/shuffle of 1.46 miles, with an elevation gain of 54 feet.
No wonder I was puffing and blowing like the trains used to in days of yore.
But I survived.
Although I couldn’t brush this event under the carpet, I had to make a few choices, and the biggest decision was who to tell and when?
I thanked my old pal for his advice and company this morning as he left in his car and, immediately he was gone, I got stuck into the kitchen-diner, ready for Big Sis’s arrival.
I would tell her about my breathlessness up the trail and around the local circuit, but I’d let her eat her sandwiches first.
She arrived at the back door and came in with Mr Vicious, who jumped onto my kitchen seat before you could say Jack Robinson.
I’ll reclaim that comfy, warm chair as soon as I’ve made two mugs of tea and put the dahlias into a vase.
These flowers always remind us of Dad and our old home and garden, where Dad used to tend to many dahlias in the back garden.
He used to say they were impervious to foxes, so ideal for a graveyard destination.
I don’t know if it’s true. I guess it might be, but they are definitely one of the most stunning flowers there are.
After the preliminaries were done and Big Sis had blown away her week’s frustrations suffered at work, I started to mention the walk I had just had with my pal.
While I explained the blue lips and stop-start wander, I hatched a plan for my immediate future.
As soon as Big Sis went back home, I would explain everything to my Darling when she got back from town and would head off to the A&E department for assessment and possible drug adjustment.
But that didn’t happen as I expected…
Before Big Sis disappeared, my Darling arrived and we all chatted for a while, avoiding the walk talk, and then she went home.
I was about to unload my soul to my Darling when she said:
“Hairdressers.”
And the front door closed behind her, not before she’d explained that I would be next.
“And as soon as I’m done, I’ll call or text you,” she shouted. “So be ready when I call.”
Bugger hell.
Will this day ever end?
I’ve got a feeling my Darling’s not going to like being told my “walkies” story, but even less that I’ll need assessment at her place of work, which she needs to attend early tomorrow morning at 4:30am.
After she and I had our ears lowered by our next-door neighbour, who we love dearly, we settled back into normal life.
And while my Darling was conjuring up her breakfast and lunch-break food with a great deal of fruit and yoghurt, she listened to my story, but it had a slight change.
Going back in time a little bit, when she, my Darling, was next door having her haircut, I was upstairs putting my washed and dried clothes away.
I sat on my medical bed and checked my oxygen levels one last time before I told my unaware Darling the bad news.
The thing was that my oxygen saturation was an amazing 98.
So I tried the oximeter on the other hand.
The same reading.
A healthy 98.
Which was amazing.
Because I didn’t believe the results, I did them again and again until I truly believed what the oximeter was telling me.
Now, I can’t go down to A&E without a good reason and, currently, I’m a healthy 98 and there’s no sign of the earlier breathlessness.
So telling my Darling about the blue lips became a light chat about two mates having a nice walk, with me setting the pace and stopping from time to time.
No mention about A&E.
So I only told my Darling the fairly good bits, leaving out the worst bits, and all will be well.
I will keep a check on my saturation and, if it gets really bad, I will head for the emergency department I sadly know so well.
My Darling also doesn’t know my real reasons for dieting down a few pounds.
Yes, I’m needing to lose my belly.
My belly is in the way of a healthy blood test.
Oops!
I didn’t tell you about that.
You remember the optician asking me — sorry, telling me — to get myself an HbA1c blood test.
Well, I filed an Anima request for this test and got a response while I was in the café with my pal this morning.
The earliest appointment, which I gladly accepted, was in three weeks and three days.
That will give me a chance to get my diet into better shape, especially the sugar intake.
Which is right up my Darling’s street.
She’s a Slimming World expert and, hopefully, if I ask nicely, she can monitor my progress and get me to face up to my limitations while I eat too many sweets and cakes.
My last blood test result, back last year sometime, was 37 — under 41 is the goal — but I guess my sweet eating has got way worse lately and I’m worried that I’ll be over the 41 I should be under.
So wish me luck.
My sweet treats from Big Sis might need to be reduced.
I hate to say it.
Ohhhhh noooo!
Good night.
Take care. 
