It's been a while since I posted anything here, which gives the impression I was a regular substacker, when in fact, I only posted for a couple of weeks before reaching the conclusion this was yet one more online thing I'd be wasting my time at. Visibility online is critical and if you don't have that, people won't be reading your work or downloading your shows. Quite frankly, as someone who feels out of place in this instant, everything-on-demand era, and who has in recent years concluded I'd have functioned better in the more sedate pre-1998 wider rollout of DialUp, I'm just not prepared to do more than I already do. I see the people who are constantly online, despite family commitments, and who have tens of thousands of followers, and rather than envy, I almost feel terror. It's just not the way to live. You'd have all those followers expecting regular content, either for free or for a pittance that will, if you're a lucky creator, cover a utility bill or two, and at some point, when that following starts to dip and your followers move onto follow the next relentless blue badge tweeter, you're going to panic. With me, at least I don't have much in the way of a social media following (what was considerable in 2010 doesn't work now) to fret about losing 'fans'. Still, despite all that, I thought I'd write something this evening while I wait for a football friend to turn up in Baker Street.
I have a couple of lattes inside me following what ultimately proved to be an ineffective writing session at my regular café this afternoon. Half of it was spent on the phone to a friend calling to see how I was. Again, it’s unusual for me to be using the phone, especially for what ‘back in the day’ was its primary function but recognising, particularly during this pandemic, that I need to end this hermit-like existence of the last few years, I’m making an effort at re-engaging with friends and trying to rebuild a non-existent social life.
Today I had three SMALL talk interactions with two of the waiters and the waitress. The latter arose from a misunderstanding. I waved at her whilst on the phone and she thought I wanted something when all I was trying to do was be outgoing. I seem to be coming out the other side of this peak-pandemic era as (by my standards) a raconteur. The problem I find when you’re an introvert is when you try to be something more, you never know when to stop. You can be guilty of dragging out the conversations but today I felt my SMALL talk game was strong, at least with the waiters. Annoyingly for me, going au fresco right now, it’s a real lottery being sat outside as it can often remind you of the days before the life-changing smoking ban came in back in 2007. There’s this regular customer, a Portuguese male pensioner who vapes these days, and his vaping was taking out at least four tables today, including mine. It was very annoying, and I was more irked by it when I noticed he was wearing flip flops.
I'm standing to the side of a doorway by Boots. I could stand IN the doorway given whatever this other shop once was is closed, but the predictable reek of stale urine easily convinces me to stay put. With it being only last Friday that I had some bird unload on my BOUFFANT in Nine Elms, I'm taking a risk waiting at this spot and a quick glance at the ground shows that I might be vulnerable to another bird strike here. Nevertheless, I hold my position.
It's a strange time. I've never been fitter. I've never been stronger and yet, after years and years of long hours and little relaxation, I'm dealing with my first major health scare. From the pandemic's early days, I understood this was not a time to develop a major health issue, but I did. I focused on my mental health, a battle in itself the last year, while disregarding my physical health. I was working out and running six days a week. I got fit. I got stronger. But I couldn’t see until too late it was being undermined by the absence of rest and sleep. That coupled with a very stressful housing situation that has dragged on for a long time, has put me where I am.
With waiting lists at their highest in the NHS's 70-year history, I'm still waiting to hear from the surgeon. I'd been rushed in for a scan on the Sunday, told I'd be seen again that week, but that hasn't happened, and clearly, with Covid on the march once more, it's likely I've either been forgotten or my situation, despite the regular discomfort I'm now in, means they feel I can wait. It irks me, as someone who tries to limit their phone use, that right now, my phone normally on silent, has been set to vibrate and I've got it in my hand all the time, like a millennial, when travelling.
I don't want to live like that.
I'm getting advised to scale back all the exercise, or at least ease up on it, by several of my rebuilt social circle. It makes sense but for now, I'm electing to ease up slightly and I'm doing a lot of stretching exercises before and after workouts, running and football. Well, except after tonight's game. I just know that I'm one of those people that has to work at staying fit. Through sheer effort, commitment, discipline, in all kinds of weather, I finally got fit, initially out of curiosity to test out how strong my foot was after surgery on a fracture. But I came to value what it gave me mentally. Without that, I'm not sure I would've stuck at it. My point is though (I think there's a point) that I think I'm one of those people who has to exercise constantly to stay on top of their fitness. It doesn't come naturally to me. And knowing how hard it was to get fit in the first place, I don't think I have it in me to go through that again. Earlier this year, after finally falling to Covid, it took me months to again build up the fitness and that was bloody hard after just two weeks off running. To have to stop for longer, or worse still, for good, would be a real negative.
I've enjoyed playing football for the first time with my fitness comfortably carrying me through a game, competing adequately, sometimes more, against guys that often now, I could've fathered.
One thing I've been reacquainted with in the park is the curious thing I always had when it came to sport in that I'm not very competitive. I mean, I compete, don't get me wrong. I battle for every ball but here's the thing and it's always been the case, I'm never bothered if my team lose. Good job too given some of the crap teams I played with. I would rather lose 1-0 than win 5-0. I just don't see how a one-sided game can be enjoyable. But it’s weird because in my creative ‘career’, I’ve always been very driven – again, to an unhealthy degree – but in sport, I don’t really care too much.
I was somewhat unfocused at the start of the game after a troubling incident before the match when getting changed on the grass, I noted one of my socks (thankfully not my football socks) was wet. Why, I thought to myself, was the grass wet when it hadn’t rained today? What was behind this moisture? There were two possibilities, neither of which were easy to dismiss. It was either dog urine or spittle. Eventually I was able to put it to the back of my mind but had to return home in my football socks as about to change into my regular socks afterwards, I found my left-hand recoiling as I handled the still-wet left sock. And the process started all over again of wondering what was behind the wetness. I forgot to say, that when I noted the sock was wet pre-game, one of my friends, sat about two metres away from me as he got changed, started wondering why the back of his shorts were wet as he sat down to put his socks on. I wonder if he was thinking what I was? I mean, what else could it have been?
It has to be one of those two aforementioned things, and even now, back in the flat, sat in my pants finishing this newsletter off after polishing off a late-night bowl of yoghurt and muesli, I’m asking myself what the better option would be. Dog urine or spittle? What does it matter now, one of my more reasonable alter-egos wonders? There’s every chance it was spittle. Had anyone else played after we did tonight, had they sat down and got changed in what had been my team’s penalty area, they would’ve been sitting in a pond of the stuff. After about an hour, several of my team appeared to have launched a spitting competition, in our own area too, and I did ask them several times if they could curb the increasingly fierce launches of phlegm as the game wore on.
I enjoyed the game. I probably won’t be able to run now until Saturday if the two previous weeks are anything to go by. Every time I made a challenge and jostled for the ball, holding off an opponent, I did wonder about Covid-safety, but overall, I think I feel safer with the football than I do with the running. I’m very wary of those (many) runners who run with earphones because they don’t realise just how heavy they’re breathing and yesterday, for instance, I counted at least three occasions on my run where I had a heavy-breathing runner coming towards me where I felt their breath. That’s three potential Covid transmission points.
One of my friends urinated in some bushes pre-game. I only mention this as I wrap up this post because he’s a very tactile guy (and refuses to get vaccinated or wear a mask). We travel home together most of the way and he really is a raconteur, every point emphasised by coming in close and touching your wrist, your arm, your shoulder. As soon as I saw him emerging from the bushes this evening, I knew I was in trouble. Unless there were handgel dispensers somewhere in those bushes, those hands weren’t clean. Once I post this, I’m in that shower and will be paying particular attention to my wrists and forearms tonight. I counted at least a dozen separate occasions on the journey home tonight where he touched me. Any other friend, I could’ve made light of the bushes situation after the game and offered to squirt some handgel in their hand, but look, I can’t even get this guy to wear a mask.
I’ve no idea why I felt the need to write this tonight. I’m not sure it matters. I wish I could’ve been as relaxed about why my left sock was wet tonight.
Twitter: @1607WestEgg
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