I’ve been lost for words, not something that afflicts me often but a late night session with distilled grape and we’re off again.
It’s been pants with a capital ‘P’ and then I had a weekend up in the Peaks with friends. Just accepted, no-one chastising me for being too slow and tired, or on the flip side for being ‘too’ well.
What I get when I roll up, having found the note on the door directing late-comers to the pub, is smiles and several ”you look well’s”. The angst rolls away like fog under the morning sun. And it really is one of the best of the gatherings, organised to perfection by our ultimate MC. No pressure, just smiles and riding under specially booked blue skies.
I can’t get enough it’s a drug, it’s oxygen and arnica for the soul, anaesthesia for hurt.
Sunday wraps up early. Too early, despite 6am comedy alarm calls in the girls room. I want more, no I *need* more. A friend manages to save me from myself and keep the weekend going with a deft slight of hand. We do another loop but just a short one. Crafty b*gger, sensible soul.
Roll into Sheffield by which time planet fluff has taken over the cerebral cortex and find myself being retrieved by a friend who understands that I’m only 300 yards the wrong way but it might as well be 300 miles. Bathed, belly filled, wee dram for bed, asleep with book in hand. Drive home via the Peaks and breakfast, taking my time and the scenic route.
Sunshine stretches into my head and fills my dreams, wakes me up with a smile, for now and for then. Those ‘things’ get brushed under the carpet, hidden behind the sofa, shoved to the back of the cupboard. I know it’s only temporary but I’m going to coast in it’s light whilst I can.