One Step Beyond

I’ve been lax with my rehab exercise regime over last couple of days. This tardiness including not having walked for any decent duration since Monday when I trekked to the back of beyond. This a distant place that smells of antiseptic mouthwash and uses the old Spanish currency peseta as its legal tender.

The back of beyond is a decent enough place to visit, but yours truly couldn’t live there permanently, even if there wasn’t a restraining order in place. Not with prices of 4,000 pesetas  (about £20) for a pint of San Miguel and their stringent enforcement of their anti-body hair laws.

Anyhow, as a consequence of my tardiness with regard to exercising in the last two days, today’s itinerary will include me digging out my hiking boots, a pair of lycra leggings, some leg warmers and British Coal donkey jacket***. After which I plan to undertake a decent length local walk.

*** – To clarify, I won’t be wearing those clothing items on my wander, I’ll be digging them out for a doorstep charity bag which is being collected tomorrow…… My god, I’d never leave the house wearing that combination of threads. Not in the daylight anyway!


Like ensuring I adhere to my post-cardiac medication schedule, I can’t be too reckless with the levels of physical strain I place on my heart; either from a perspective of too little or too strenuous an exercise regime. Quite obviously, when rebuilding a damaged cardio muscle, discipline and a sensible approach is key when mitigating against further health risks.

With that in mind, along with the last two days of on-foot inertia, I’m not going to risk the lengthy back of beyond walk today. I’m going to partake in a more local stroll; one that smells less of antiseptic mouthwash (unless I route through my dentist’s surgery) and whose currency of the realm is sterling.

Talking of dentists, I may nip over to see my mother later to see how’s she’s progressing following the tooth extraction she underwent yesterday. Checking the orthodontist carrying out the procedure wasn’t a “scruffy bleeder” with a beard and long hair; circumstances which would have inflicted mater with as much mental distress as the physical pain experienced having the molar pulled.

There’s a fairly famous adage that you know you’re getting older when policemen start looking younger. My mum opines the same theory holds true for dentists, which leads to a degree of nervousness when undergoing dental treatment. For instance, her pre-procedure comments yesterday were “He’s nowt but a lad…… I hope he doesn’t get distracted if his balls drop while he’s pulling my tooth out.”

A whimsically uttered notion with the motive of making her audience smile; and hopefully made out of the dentist’s earshot. She isn’t ordinarily crude, but does occasionally stretch the boundaries of briskness to impart levity during tense situations.

After her extraction, apparently padding equivalent to that found in a single bed mattress was required to stem the blood flowing from where her tooth had formerly resided. Consequently, for a few hours yesterday afternoon her diction resembled the incoherent Frontier Gibberish my wife’s pater spouts as a matter of course.

Anyhow, I best bring this narrative to a conclusion. After all sitting on my arse writing this nonsense definitely won’t help strengthen my injured heart……. Incidentally, does anyone one know a bureau de change where I can get hold of some old Spanish pesetas?

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