End of Wandering

Bad news for the SK; her extravagant yomping on the previous day results in her waking up feeling a bit sore. And then very much more sore. Soon it’s clear I’m nursey for the day. I have some experience of that kind of stuff so I know without any hesitation and with no medical knowledge at all that it’s lower back muscle strain causing inflammation and pressure on the nerves, n’that. Light exercise and painkillers. The SK, with a more fertile imagination, starts choosing funeral music.
With her well happed up I take myself off for exercise round the neighbourhood - a bit of the podcast The Jump from Radio 4 about how viruses spread. But only as far as Newhaven Station where something is up. I have to retrieve my steps, heavily laden with my tiny flat white and eight tins of Tobias’s finest table beers.
With the patient attended to, a long solitary evening stretches ahead. Clearly a film is called for. A film that may not otherwise be seen at prime time. The Painted Bird. A fabulous invocation (whoah!) of life amongst the superstitious peasantry in medieval times. Except it’s 1940s Poland. Brutal. And beautifully shot, almost magical. And so to bed.