Temporarily felled by a recent car accident and consequent minor head injury, I have spent the last couple of weeks recovering. Mostly on the settee. This has caused much consternation in the pet camps, the cat is particularly put out by this shift in daily routine and permanent human fixture on his choice for repose. The whippet, however, is delighted. Anyone familiar with the temperament of these long and lean canine machines will know that they have two gears in life- full gas, particularly when chasing squirrels, or full recline – legs in the air, preferably on expensive throws and cushions. I am now a settee companion to Alfred the whippet. A stationary, human – shaped heat source, our routine punctuated by forays into the kitchen for malty, strong, sweet cups of loose leaf tea, biscuits (his bone shaped mine round and chocolate coated) and companionable long yoga stretches.
Dubbed the ‘Poor Man’s Racehorse’, whippets are quite often depicted as skinny, rather dejected looking hounds, found alongside Yorkshire men in long coats and caps on their way to the pub for a pint of mild. Alfred, has ideas beyond this station. Rain offends him. As does mud, or any slight draught, particularly if he doesn’t have his fleece lined coat on. He likes a gentle start to the morning, hot buttered toast and the rustle of a newspaper perused above his head which will be found nestled in a human lap. Alfred would prefer an elegant glass of Pinot noir, sipped cross legged on decadent French furnishing to a thick- glassed pint of dark ale sunk at a bar. Alfred likes to gaze at me, unwaveringly, with his dark, gentle eyes.
Alfred knows I’m not quite myself.
Recovery from minor concussion had been progressing well, under the watchful eyes of Alfred. And complete disinterest- bordering on revulsion- of the cat. The oceanic roar in my ears had dialled down, the sickness and headaches abated. Then the little tourists arrived. An angry belt of blisters snaked across my torso, along with fatigue, nausea and generally feeling ropey. It is apparently quite normal to develop shingles after a head trauma. I had started to feel very despondent at further orders to ‘rest’ and reside on the settee a while longer, swathed in loose fitting cotton and calamine lotion. Fatigued by the shapeless form to my usual work structured, people infused days, I feared I may lose all my faculties and social etiquette. I shall quote from the great canon of English Literature; (Bridget Jones) ‘And I’ll finally die three weeks later, half eaten by Alsatians…’! (Or in this case a wine discerning whippet.)
Paranoia started to creep in, cognitive processes receding to thoughts around acquisition of a similar wardrobe to Claudia Winkleman featured in The Traitors and other deeply, cerebral contemplations – will I ever wear a bra again? Pork pie for lunch? Should somebody talk to me, will I be able to form a conversation or will some Neanderthal screech erupt primitively from my solar plexus as I beat my chest? (Avoiding the shingles tourists obviously.)
And then yesterday, finally, the sun came out. I pottered outside into the garden with Alfred. We cleared leaves, fed the chickens, and then sat on the bench with a cup of tea and gazed up at the sky and around the garden as it slowly, slowly unfurled in the sun. I spotted a cluster of daffodils, just starting to poke their mineral green heads above the parapet.
Deep breath in. Long breath out.
It will be okay, everything will be okay;
‘She turned to the sunlight
And shook her yellow head,
And whispered to her neighbour:
Winter is dead.’
