But when I wander next door on a blue and white May evening with the smell of lilacs hanging in the air from our magnificently revived lilac bush, and they pour me a glass of white wine and offer nibbles and bits of duck and a few vegetables as well, will I say no? Especially when the conversation turns to our Oncle Marcel of blessed memory (gassed in the first war, led a pleasant invalid's life thereafter, writing witty letters and learning foreign languages) and segues into discussions of languages we would learn had we but world enough and time and enough cash to hire a Berlitz tutor to come to the house (I'd learn ancient Greek *properly*) and it feels like being back in France, back in the 80s, wine and good food and relaxed conversation with pleasant people. A happy moment to recall afterwards.
Physiotherapist today tells me to stay off my feet for the weekend. We'll see if I do. But walking is no longer a pleasure after these exercises, and biking itself hurts too. I may go squirrelly in the end, but right now lying on the couch strikes me as just about my speed.