There was a time when getting up from the floor or the ground outside meant nothing to me. It was as if I just had to press an internal switch and then - Boing! - I was up. But it is not like that these days.
Just this week I was lying on the floor with Baby Margot. We were playing with baby toys and smiling at each other but when I tried to press the internal button in order to give the "Get up!" signal, I discovered - not for the first time - that it is just not working any more.
Instead of leaping up like an uncoiled spring, I was left floundering on the floor like a beached sea-lion. It was only when I managed to find some leverage on the coffee table and sofa that I was able to pull myself up with noticeable physical effort and some porcine grunting sounds.
Outside our house there is a public grass verge which I have tended for the past thirty five years. Mostly there's no need to get down on it but in the middle of it there is a young magnolia tree which remains staked for stability. My "Bosch" lawnmower cannot get in to cut the grass between the stakes so I have to get down on the ground with my garden shears to trim the grass there.
All very well and good until I have to get up again. More grunting while using the stakes to pull myself back up. What a pathetic sight!
When did this happen? I cannot pinpoint the point in time when I achieved this disability. Rising from the floor or ground used to be so easy but now it is so hard. It is quite possible that my life will end this way - gracelessly thrashing about on my back or belly - pathetically calling for help or some kind of leverage.
Is this what it means to be seventy? Perhaps the social services will happily provide me with some sort of mechanical hoist for emergency occasions. Alternatively, there may be a number I can call in order to receive the services of trained lifters.
from Yorkshire Pudding https://ift.tt/z86eCmW