We’re in the middle of a lovely lovely weekend. We’ve done absolutely nothing stressful (or even that interesting) and it feels great.
Yesterday we managed to get some vegetables from the supermarket, make some great soup, drink a bottle of pink fizz, and go out on the skates. Today, we’ve done the ironing (in the garden, the weather has been that nice) and shredded some post that’s been hanging round. And that’s it.
It felt really good to get out on the skates. The first time I went outside, I couldn’t bring myself to move more than an arms length from the house, but this time Stuart walked me up and down the path until I’d got the feel of the basic movement. I’m now confident enough to go up and down in straight lines without holding on to anything, although I’m really really slow.
When I’ve got Stuart within grab distance, I’m even beginning to get the confidence to start swooshing a little bit, rather than making baby steps. I’ve just got to transfer that to when I’m skating on my own. This weekend’s progress has given me enough knowledge to see where I can get if I carry on trying, bit by bit.
Stuart’s coming on too – for each length of the road I make, he’s zooming up and down four or five times, doing his fancy pants turns at the end. I’m so jealous, even though he’s insistent that he’s nowhere near as good as he used to be.
The most worrying bit of all this is the two kids who are also practicing on our street. They’re about 8, and they could have us any time. God knows what they’re making of the two fat old duffers wobbling around looking like they’re going to fall any moment.