I've had a bad back for a number of days now, brought about by being gung-ho and thinking that I am still strong and fit - why would you ever carry one child on your shoulders and a massive bag of shopping in your hand, whilst running after another child so that you can shout at them a bit more, unless you were prepared to get a bad back?
Anyone who has suffered in this way will know that even bending down to pick up a stray sock is something that has to be thought about - not only whether it is worth it, but how you are going to do it and, more importantly, how are you going to get up again afterwards...
Imagine, therefore, my misery when I looked out the window yesterday to see a pair of my jeans blowing off the washing line and landing in the muddy sheep field behind. I hobbled out in inadequate shoes (as the thought of pulling on my wellies was inconceivable) only to see them stuck in a puddle along with the lid of the compost bin and a few socks. I should have just grimmaced, climbed over the fence and fetched the damn things, but I didn't. I hoped that the helpful farmer would pick them up, take them home, launder and iron them and return them to my doorstep the next morning - but of course the lazy shyster didn't, and I had to go to bed knowing that sheep were probably eating them / lying on them / laughing at the size stated in the label.
During the night it stormed, and now they are probably sunk in three inches of mud with a sheep lying on them for warmth.
This will bring smug pleasure to my dad as he predicted the rise in temperatures and the storm, reminding me of one of his grandfather's sayings about it ne'r blowing easterly over a full moon. Huw was less impressed, saying that he could have told me that as he saw it on Ceefax earlier that day.