A Step Too Far
‘Shall we go for a walk?’ It was Sunday. The husband’s buzzing like a bee day.
I might have mentioned this before. The husband and I are born at opposite ends of the zodiac spectrum. It does not make for a restful life. I could extrapolate. Write a book. I will desist.
Suffice it to say I consider Sunday a day of rest. Gazing at my navel. If it’s good weather, that is. The kind of weather we’ve been having lately, I would be hard-pressed to find anything on my body. Or feel it.
The husband looks at Sunday the way a whirling dervish might contemplate God. Going round in circles. Rattling the washing machine. Doing the vacuum cleaner dance. Looking balefully at my growing wool stash. Making unkind remarks about said stash. Ignoring the boxes that contain his papers from his last two jobs. Then, finally, with a sigh, ‘We really need to get rid of some of this stuff. This flat is going under.’
Therefore, the going for a walk seemed like the easier option. It was also a bit of a sacrifice, let me add. I am a walker. I have a Fitbit. When I set out, ten thousand steps are the only option. The thing I miss most in the lockdown is my walking group – seven Welsh men and I boldly conquering all kinds of Welsh terrain.
The husband’s preferred form of exercise is usually doing five push-ups – fifty by his count! – and jumping up and down for about a minute afterwards. So you see? The sacrifice was called for. And I was a willing lamb. For once.
‘After twelve?’ I said brightly. ‘The weather will be better.’
Moan of despair in response. ‘Sainsbury’s will run out of eggs.’ Aha! That’s what this was all about.
We set out. I turned left. He turned right. ‘Where are you going?’ The question was decidedly querulous.
‘I thought we’d take the longer route to the bridge.’
‘We’ll go this way, but okay, we’ll go around the new construction. That long enough?’ Maybe not, but when did sacrificial lambs get a say?
We’d got past the construction and were on due course for the bridge when the winds shifted. As they do on the half hour in Swansea.
‘It’s raining!’ The querulous quotient had shifted up a gear. ‘Shall we go back and take the car?’
‘It’s only mizzling,’ I said as gently as I could. ‘Here, shall I help you with that hood?’ I even held his hand as we made our way across the bridge.
‘Second lock?’ I asked when we were safely past. The mizzle had taken one look at the husband’s intrepid-ness and dwindled away.
‘Why? This first one is just fine.’
I sighed. Gave it up as a lost cause. My Fitbit beeped in sympathy. Tomorrow was Monday. The husband would do five push-ups. And I would walk.
