First planning session

Had the dream team round for coffee. Lots of ideas discussed.

(..and beer)

Owl thing

So details. We bought the old Methodist Free Church building in New Mills. It burned out in the 1990s and really all that remains are four walls and some graves. Trees have grown up in the building and the adjoining Sunday school building, which is part of the property. Pics:

We intend to make the home we've always wanted - detached, not overlooked, lots of light, views across the valley to Kinder Scout. Currently we're still arranging meetings with an architect and an engineer. Then we'll know more about how it will end up.

Had a mooch around this morning and saw this little chap sleeping in one of the trees..

..so decided to rename my blog in his honour.

More soon. This might fall through even yet..

Later taters

Church renovation project.

Well well. Anyone still subscribed to the squirrel?

So we're buying a church. To make a house.

More soon.

Guitar

I'm learning guitar. So far I've played scales, and today my first ever chords. G, C and D.

My fingers now look like bishops' hats.

Am I supposed to be able to play more than one of these per song? Bollocks to that.

Laters

First Run

Filmage of the first time I broke into a shamble, that is to say a run, after spinal surgery last november. Doc said give it six months and I sort of did.

I managed 5k in 39 minutes, that's partly walking. I'm so encouraged by the lack of pain that I might just enter an event just for a reason to train.

As before stated, this is basically my diary. Feel free to be completely bored. Personally I'm stupidly excited.

In other news, I contacted a bodhrán maker and I'm considering this as my next purchase...

Laters

Not Easily

By Russell Hindley, Summer 2002

Chester was teeming with couples and groups out for fun, also with rain, the night of my special date.

I pondered the human race’s ability to communicate so well, and so badly as half-drunk revellers passed us in the deluge, unaware of how little they understood their friends. No such problem for my partner and me that night. We were closer than a couple, closer than brother to suister, brother to brother, twin to twin, identical or otherwise.

“You thinking what I’m thinking?”, he murmured.

“Difficult not to”, was my bemused response.

I was still in shock, of course. It had only been three hours since my wife had come to me with warnings of “an exciting evening ahead”, finally explaining the reason for two weeks of mysterious closed-door activity in our spare room, said door staying locked at all times when I was around. I’d managed the briefest of glimpses inside the room during that time, seeing only some books and candles, and some kind of altar…

“It’s something nobody has experienced since the days of the druids, and you are very privileged, that’s all I’ll say”, was all she would say.

Her interest in all things occult had been passing at first, until she discovered a dusty old book in a junk shop, untitled, its blue leather cover seeming as old as the hills but intact. The metal clasp clicked open as soon as she tried it, to the amazement of the equally old-looking shopkeeper.

“Never could budge the damned thing, and believe me I tried”, he exclaimed as he put the still-unopened book in a bag for her. Both had seemed unwilling to open it since the superstitious chill had blown through us all when the clasp clicked. I can still hear it now, clear as day, like an echo from a distant time and place. All other sound seemed to fade, coming back slowly as we registered the open clasp. He seemed in a hurry to be rid of us after his initial surprise…

A week after that, the sessions in the spare room began, culminating in her announcement. I was to get myself ready to go out (“Smart casual, don’t forget to wash your hands and face”), in two hours, with a special guest. The evening would be informative to both parties, and I was assured the guest would be “Interesting company”. She then disappeared into the spare room leaving me to ponder, and to wash.

I was waiting in the living room two hours later, when a strangely familiar voice called from the spare room. I hadn’t realised anybody was up there with her. I went up the stairs slowly, knowing somehow that my life would never be the same again. What confronted me on the threshold of the spare room was proof of that. I did a classic double-take, even (bless) rubbing my eyes to clear the strange image. Standing there, large as life and at least twice as ugly, was myself.

“God”, I blurted in shock.

“No, just me”, he quipped in familiar fashion.

Who are you?” I asked.

“You” he answered.

“Who?”

“You”.

“How?”

“Not easily”

“Where is my wife?”

“Here”

“Where?”

“Here”. (Points to chest)

“How?”

“Not easily” (grins)

“You’re disguised as me?”

“No, not exactly. I look and think as you do, but my spirit is still her”

“Oh”

“It lasts until midnight. Shall we go?”

“Go?”

“As in … out?”

“Ah. Ok then” (voice still and octave higher than usual)

So out we went into the rain, and the unknown. I didn’t know where to start. Luckily he did.

“This will be interesting for both of us”, as we put our first drinks down. Bottle of Bud for him, “Same, I suppose” for me.

“When I revert to my own self, your wife, I will remember how I felt about everything we discuss this evening, and I’ll have an insight into what makes you tick. So, for that matter, will you – if you ask the right questions”

Our first comic moment had already been and gone, as “We” jockeyed for position in the righthand seat of the bench outside the wine bar. Eventually we settled for seats facing across a table. I studied my own face with mixed feelings, noticing the wayward right eye with displeasure, the over-full lower lip with distaste, and the open mouth with something akin to disgust. How does she put up with that? I thought, closing my mouth and attempting to breathe through long-disused nostrils. He must have noticed it too, as he did the same.

“Questions, you want questions. Hmm. What’s it like meeting yourself?”

“Interesting, as I’m sure you’ll agree. Visually no great shakes. I’m thinking you’ll probably be better company for Lyn after this. Not so sure about he reaction though. She’ll be a little surprised at how much attention you pay to other women, but as I’m you at the moment it seems perfectly reasonable”. (They both watch two women passing in the lessening rain, casually studying their figures as a chef would study a fresh turbot)

“Yes, perfectly”

“I mean, if they didn’t want to be looked at, why dress like that?”

“Her reaction to that question is that they like to look nice to themselves”

Pause as two more pass, like sweets in cellophane. They simultaneously lift their bottles, smiling at the coincidence. The Bud tastes as good as ever.

“Makes you drunk, this stuff you know”

“Yeah, yeah, yawn yawn”

The evening passed slowly, as we both struggled to find questions to ask. I reflected that my wife, alas, was better company. The verbal jousting was less informative than the visual information, but both were dwarfed by the vast shock of watching my own body language. Countless times I cringed,  countless times I saw him cringe. As the evening drew on, I noticed the frequency of these cringeworthy moments grew less, asif the whole thing had been an exercise in self-improvement.

I was tired by the time midnight came around. He seemed the same, probably from the strain of obsessive fascination in every move the other person makes. Goodbyes were short, I thin he knew I just wanted my wife back.

“Well?” she asked, emerging from the spare room, large as life and at lest twice as beautiful. Her look was knowing, not surprisingly.

“Well, that was a shock”

“That’s nothing. Just wait ‘til next Friday, you’re going to be me for a night”

“Who?”

“You”

“Who?”

“Me”

“Ah. How?”

“Not easily”….

..and Back

Well, it's done - or at least the first part's done. I'm now at B-day plus seven, and feeling a bit stiff but pleased at my progress. I managed to walk 3.5 miles today and we're off out for a pint and play some music tonight, so not bad for a cripple. 

The surgeon tells me that if he doesn't like what he sees on the next x-ray, he will insert some metalwork. That would not be good, since my clients have been very cooperative to this point, promising me work from home and allowing me this time off. Next appointment will probably be in a couple of weeks. 

I don't have any wonderful images of the operation or even of my transformed back, but hope to get those during the next consultation. Needless to say I'm very much looking forward to that. All this discomfort has to be for something. 

I seem to have escaped the procedure with a minimum of painkillers. One oral dose of morphine as soon as I woke up (I'm no hero). Sweet, delicious and extremely effective, but boy the resulting constipation was never, never to be repeated. I won't go into too much detail, but I know more about myself than I did last week, that's for sure. *shudders*. Now I can get by on paracetamol. 

I must say that Stepping Hill hospital, much maligned recently for obvious reasons, was excellent. The nurses were helpful and talkative, the ward was clean, modern and comfortable, the doctors were approachable. They also let me go home after only 24 hours from the operation, but I suspect the pressure for beds had a lot to do with that. Why can't they just keep a few more empty beds to cut down waiting time? Money I suppose. Here's my prospective reward to myself:

It's a mountain bike. 

I have arranged to do a coast-to-coast charity bike ride during the August bank holiday, and still hope to take part. My recovery will need to be positively meteoric (as it has been so far) and of course the second operation will have to not happen, for it to be possible, but here's hoping. Either way I'm very impatient to be back on a bike doing what I do. Here are some other things that have happened:

Sold this. The bike I mean. 

Had a holiday in Gambia. This is me with Gibril, our waiter and tour guide. 

..and this is wifey getting all cosy with Gibril's son when we visited his home. 

Dickensian xmas dinner at our place. 

Our lives were taken over by little boxes. lyn was commissioned to put an art installation into a medieval tower in Macclesfield for Barnaby festival. The result was Other Peoples Treasure. 

I updated my image with snazzy placky glasses. 

Later peeps, I'm off to bang my drum and moan about back pain..