A busy day with a sting in the tail

The days are definitely getting busier, which is, I think, a good thing. Unlike Dunbar in Catch-22, I don’t want to extend my life by cultivating boredom. Although, if I think about it, this might be the only good reason to watch England play.
 
With Ottawacker Jr. out at his football camp all morning, I did a couple of hours’ work on the New Zealand site, and then went to visit A at Westpointe. It is always a sobering visit, but we did manage to walk a little this time and headed downstairs for a coffee.
 
After lunch, I went for my first session with a personal trainer at FRST; Anna was very nice, very patient, but not very forgiving at any attempts to say I couldn’t do something. This I put down to her being Ukrainian. I managed to get through the hour of stretching and moving – although I did laugh when she wanted me to sit down on the floor, legs crossed. I could hardly do that when I was playing football; nowadays, it hurts to imagine it.
 
As I was leaving the gym, I managed to hit the start of Hurricane Beryl’s arrival. As in perfectly hit the start. I opened the door to the gym and there was no rain. By the time I had taken my second step, I was drenched. It was a curtain of water. I ran to the car (no mean feat given how sore I was feeling) and struggled in. By the time I got back home (a couple of blocks), there was a river running down our street.
 
Somehow, between my departure and arrival, Ottawacker Jr. had managed to invite a friend around to watch the first of the Euro semi-finals. Spain were very good, but France were a little disappointing. The worst thing – and I mean, the absolute worst thing – is that I can see England beating Spain should they get through tomorrow.
 
Late afternoon, I got a call from my uncle and aunt in Vancouver, telling me that my aunt’s brother Georgie had died. He, too, had been suffering from Alzheimer’s. It really is an insidious disease. I really liked Georgie, he was a mad Liverpool supporter and had a very wicked sense of humour. He’s part of the Chinese branch of my family: when he first arrived in Canada (from Liverpool), he worked with Canadian Airlines as a baggage handler and plane detailer. At that time, people had trouble connecting a broad Scouse accent with a Chinese-looking guy, so when he was detailing the plane, he would often shout out some gentle insult at the back of a pilot or official (“‘ey youse, wossdat on yer head?”) and as they would turn round to see who had yelled it, he’d make a point of turning round to look behind him as well. He never got caught, not once.
 
Mrs. Ottawacker took Ottawacker Jr. and his friend to their soccer practice, and I decided that my stiffness, soreness, and decrepitude was worthy of some sort of apéritif. It didn’t really help that much, but it was worth a try.