Today’s rehabilitative exercise aimed at strengthening my post-cardiac arrest ticker was a bracing 45 minute walk around Colton village. Slowly but surely I’m attempting to raise my heart’s exertion levels; as such today’s amble was at a brisker pace than normal.
Accompanied by late winter sunshine, it was a pleasant enough sojourn around the estate. A meander spent with views of inquisitive grey squirrels, itinerant low flying wood pigeons and primary aged kids with their flustered looking mums and dads. Judging by the parent’s body language, the school run providing them with fulfilment levels akin to giving rotund celebrity Gemma Collins a piggyback.
Mercifully, I’ve not experienced any negative cardiac responses post round village saunter. Subsequently, each day this week I’m contemplating gradually building up the distances with a view to trek to Temple Newsham pond on Friday. A scenic round trip which takes around an hour to complete.
The adage ‘You need walk before you can run’ provides a fitting description for the patience required post-heart attack. The progress during early recuperation time consuming, frustrating and too sparse of wine for my liking.
Seeking a innovative never used simile I had an earlier epiphany to compare recovery from cardiac arrest to be as slow as a sloth’s pet snail. However, as that makes absolutely no chuffing sense, I decided against adding it….. Although, I think I just have!!
On Saturday, I consumed my first alcoholic drink for five weeks. Before I get pilloried for being so irresponsible only four weeks after my heart scare, I took a sensible approach to the imbibing. As approved by my cardiologist, I rationed myself to one bottle of beer and a small glass of white wine.
Tomorrow I reach another milestone when I start driving again following my health related four week hiatus; my son Jonny scheduled to return my car at 7am. That’s if my Sat Nav helps him find his arse with both hands, the slack get!
I desperately need a haircut. With my thickening locks growing upwards like a bouffant I’ve currently a look of Angela Lansbury when she starred in ‘Murder She Wrote’. Or I would have if she had a beard and the drawn look of a man who’d recently had a heart attack.
Last time I had my barnet trimmed was the Friday before Christmas. A number two clippered back and sides with a scissor cut top, undertaken by a green haired lady barber, accomplished of trade and friendly of nature. My yuletide haircut carried out with gratis accompaniments of a bottled beer, a slice of Christmas cake and amiable banter.
The barber shop one of a countrywide franchise whose customer demographic is more my 28 year old son than this 50+ geezer with a dicky ticker. However, they make me as welcome of the young patrons, even going as far putting the defibrillator on standby when I take the barber’s chair.