Yanno, body, if you're going to keep me up to all hours emptying the contents of my digestive system, maybe you could register something more than half a pound weight loss next day? Especially since it meant not seeing my family today and a hunger headache by this afternoon.
(I had takeout on Thursday but I don't think it was that. Food poisoning as I understand it works in both directions, and this didn't. Maybe just my system taking exception to beets.)
Forgot that gardening turns me into a wooden board afterwards so today was a bit of a write-off. Must keep stretching in hopes of being mobile by Saturday when I have a memorial mass to go to. Not that I want to, and not only because it's in a Catholic church. Covid numbers inch up again and these people will be singing. Ah well. Will see.
Ordered in and the not-young delivery man thanked me for coming out on my porch so he didn't have to climb my steps because his knees are bothering him. So things could always be worse. At least I don't have to work.
It turned dry and cool overnight after yesterday's muggy deluge and I figured I wouldn't get a better chance to go to the end of the street for my blood tests, the ones that should have been done in March (no- too much snow) and June (no- too much rain.) So off I trundled, breakfastless, and got that done, cheering myself with the thought of a Baskin Robbins ice cream afterwards. Only afterwards was still too early for them to be open: pandemic has evidently thinned the number of people who show up at the lab midmorning, because usually at 10:30 there's eight or nine guys waiting, sometimes in the hallway. OK then, I'll go round the corner to Tim Horton's for a doughnut and coffee. It wasn't conscious virtue that made me substitute a breakfast muffin instead: more that a muffin and egg and cheese seemed more satisfying. And as I sat outside in the cool breeze, was accosted by my s-i-l's daughter, also coming from blood work, though why here when she lives way out the Danforth I don't know. Haven't seen her since Charistmas of 2019, which I can now scarcely recall.
Then. since it continued cool and pleasant, tackled that other oft-postponed chore, cutting back the lianas that want to take over the garden. Particularly the ones coiling about the AC unit, and also cut back what I could of the mulberry which has been loving this wet warm summer to the tune of two feet in two weeks. And oh dear god did everything seize up in my back and leg and everywhere. Dragged bag of cuttings down to the street, leaning on my hiking staff all the way as knee went click click click bone on bone. Then bundled up garbage for tomorrow and put that out and oh dear god did my back spasm as I was doing so. Gloom doom despair all round. Went and bicycled for a scant half hour, sweating mightily at the new resistance, got up and-- my knee was happy and my back was happy and I put the organic garbage out no problem at all. If bicycling will keep my knee happy then I shall bicycle three times a day.
I think I finished a Dick Francis last week, skimming a chunk because I remembered too late that this is the one where a nice character gets killed. Am still reading Library of the Dead which is proving oddly slow, possibly because the author isn't saying stuff I know already, which is what lets me read fast.
The dread Torontonian three h's are upon us: hot, hazy, and humid. Must still say it's not that hot- 28 may be muggy and unpleasant but doesn't constitute a heatwave. (Bro and s-i-l at the lake were wearing sweaters on the weekend to counteract the 17C and rain.) But there are forest fires up north so the hazy part is really bad haze.
I swapped the summer duvet for the down one a few weeks ago but kept finding myself cold. It's supposed to be a queen, while the feather one is a double, but somehow it kept creeping up or creeping over and exposing my poor feets to the fan or AC or both, and never covering my shoulders properly even though I wear long sleeves to bed. So last night I put the winter one back on and slept like a baby in the AC's 20C. I can't sleep in a natural 20-- way too hot-- but artificial cold works wonders. Also there were none of the leg cramps that plague me when, I'm convinced, my feet get cold. Had to wear socks with the summer duvet because of its wandering tendencies, and my socks always come off as I thrash about, and then-- leg cramps.
Email today from my wonder-working acupuncturist of long ago, back from six years travelling atchi kotchi. She needs to put in x many hours to requalify in Canada and is doing it for laughable fees. But. Her office is in Chinatown and I'd have to cab it and getting a car to anywhere on Spadina south of (the about to be renamed) Dundas Street is almost impossible. So can't see it happening.
Dundas delayed the abolition of the slave trade in England. The original 'with all deliberate speed' guy, and we're certainly not going to free people aleady enslaved because what good will that do them? Not a nice man. It will cost between 5 and 6 million to effect the change, and people have rightly pointed out that the money might better be used to help, say, First Nations towns that don't have clean water. But government is government and TO is only allowed to be responsible for itself.
Today was a classic Bad Knee Day and after doing a supermarket shop for, among other pressing things, tonic water to cushion the prophylactic gin, I should just have stayed in with the AC. But I really really wanted an ice cream cone, and remembering how my last two long walks resulted in limberness either then or the next day, off I went down the street. No limberness to be found today, just bone crunching on bone for four and a half long blocks. And when I got to Basking Robin there was a line-up, because TO has gone to a new level that allows patios but restricts the number of people inside any building. So I turned back and went to the Poop Cafe, which is some weird Korean sense of humour thing. They serve ice cream and coffee and poke bowls, so fine, I order a Hong Kong waffle cone with Moose Tracks ice cream and then sit out on the sidewalk, as per instruction, because they say it will take five to ten minutes. And it takes that long because they actually make the waffle themselves, outdoors in a little waffle iron. Which is a step up from B-R's cones, even if it's twice the price. Then back, bone crunching for the return trip up the street.
Still, I saw more people today than I have in months, since all of Toronto was outdoors enjoying the mellow warmth and sun.
I'm reading Herodotus and Don Quixote. Herodotus is much more fun. That copy I picked up the other week is a revised translation with up to date footnotes (mostly to works I have no way or intention of acquiring) and chatty old Herodotus is just as amusing as he was fifty years ago. Don Quixote-- oh dear. Am two hundred pages into a 1000 page translation and it's all 'DQ meets someone/thing on the road, thinks it/they are giants/ monsters/ other knights, attacks and gets his ribs broken/ teeth knocked out/ some other damage, Sancho Panza gets it worse, hahaha isn't this amusing? over and over and over and over. Eight hundred more pages of this. And this is the height of Spanish literature.
I mean, if you put a gun to my head and forced me to read either this or Proust, I'd probably read this, because something new *might* come up, whereas Proust will just be Marcel eaten with ridiculous jealousy for a thousand pages, and I really can't stand that. Been there done that through all of Budding Grove and half of The Captive and no thank you very much.
But anyway, both those are on hold because the library book that came in yesterday isn't Dick Francis, it's The Library of the Dead, with twenty other people waiting to read my copy so I must get on with it. Am amused to see the cover blurb is from Incandescens. How you know that you've arrived: you're on the front cover and Ben Aaronovitch is on the back.
A book came in unexpectedly at the library and since I no longer trust me on the bike *or* off it, I decided to walk over and see what happens. What happens is that in spite of muggy weather, walking with the rolator is much less painful than it was the last time I managed more than four blocks, some time back in the spring. (February, actually, and it really wasn't more than a half hour.) True, by the time I got a block from home on the return trip I was counting the feet remaining, but since I'd also dropped by the bookstore and the souvlaki shop I'd been on my feet for at least an hour and probably more. The lower back, that screams if I walk without support, was totally silent. Hard to tell if it's got better or not when it gives such mixed messages.
Prof Islamic Studies put up an awning in his backyard to cover him in this wettest of summers as he carpenters about, and so that the family can eat dinner outdoors with the in-laws, since the covered back porch is half taken up by the barbecue and won't seat six or seven people anyway. NNDs observing this have put up their own awning, rather larger because they don't have a covered back porch and do have permanent lawn furniture whose cushions must regularly be put in the sun to dry. He-NND is a smoker and does it outside, which is good for the carpeting in his place and bad for me and my delicate nose, but shou ga nai. So anyway, now he can work and smoke even in the rain, so long as the rain is intermittent and not the monsoon flash-floods of this past week. But what puzzles me is that they've left little M's little bicycle out under the cherry tree, which I'm certain will not shield it adequately from the downpours. Maybe M has outgrown it?
It's possible my doctor tried to call me this morning about that referral to the orthopedic surgeon but I'd disconnected the bedroom phone some time ago and by tne time I'd flailed my way to the study Whoever had hung up. Reassuring that I can indeed hear a phone down the hallway over the fan and window AC. Odd that she didn't leave a message. But also, 9:30 is prime spam phone call time and I may have dodged a bogus Visa report or duct cleaning service. Will she call tomorrow? Or, like her predecessor, does she take Fridays off? Ambivalent as I am about this surgery, I'm not waiting with bated breath (oh, that's another one of Will's coinages, is it?) for the referral, but of course I'm anxious about being woken up again at Too Early a.m. Why nine hours after I go to bed counts as too early is another question, whose answer probably comes down to 'my dreams are far more pleasant than my current waking reality, and if I wake up I'll forget what they are.' Well, and some of it may be the constant waking up in the night from panging joints, since it continues humid when not downright wet.
I hate when my technology starts playing silly buggers. Was at the desktop this morning, everything fine, paused to glance at my phone, and suddenly no webpage would load. Did all the usual with the broadband, sort of got it to come back, but it's still slow and takes forever to resolve host and so on. Of course I have th3e tablet, which I used for the better part of a year back in '18, but.
Found the rubber tips for the stylus; found also that rubber tips are too small for my styluses. Ordered more from amazon because Staples likes to advertise products that turn out to be unavailable when you click on them. May still have to shell out the better part of $20 for a single stylus because the amazon ones are too short for comfort and the downstairs tablet doesn't like them. Mind, the downstairs tablet doesn't like anything. I can see why it was as cheap as it was, and not just because Samsung discontinued that line.
I swear I have a hidden cache of Dick Francises somewhere because this is the second time a book I know I have hasn't been on the shelf. At least I discovered my hidden stash of Pratchetts while looking for Straight.
I'm ready for the dry season to start. Any time. Except it isn't going to for at least another five days and I shall be limping about with the rainy season owies until Thursday. Or Friday. Or whenever.
Yesterday I slept into noon, not waking except to roll over occasionally. Today I managed to wake up at 10:30, from a dream about Virginia Woolf, or rather some people arguing about Virginia Woolf and trying to blame her suicide on her husband, who was Donald Rumsfeld, so he probably was guilty as charged.