It was the last day of the five-day steroid programme today and while I am more grateful than I can say for the way the little red pills have dried up the last of my winter cough and boosted my general feeling of well-being (You remember well-being? Something that happened last year some time?), I’m happy to have finished the programme.
This time I had side-effects.
“Your face has gone fat,” Graham stated.
“You mean fatter than usual?”
“Yeah. Lots. And it’s purplish-white.”
“Oh. Thanks.”
“Just telling it how it is.”
“You wait until you need sympathy. I shall show you.”
“No you won’t.”
“How do you know that?”
“It’s not the sort of thing you do.”
Ah well. No a bad compliment that for a bloke who’s just survived a lousy, shitty winter: ”Not the sort of thing you do.”
Now I need to pop vitamins and minerals, take some regular exercise, and get a load of fresh air into my lungs. There are cobwebbed areas in my lungs I’d rather not think about.
It’s a funny old world just now, and a chap could get worried about G20s, random shootings, stabbing and bashings, and the firings of inter-continental ‘rockets’ for the fun of it. I’m more concerned with the impossible yellow of the celandines in the sun and the way the violets know just when to duck their heads when the mower passes over. And, oblivious, learn to keep my head down in much the same way.
