…and my only option is to love the whooshing sound they make as they go by, to paraphrase Douglas Adams.
Yesterday, I was called upon by the farm people to work my muscles to the bone. I single-handedly shifted a lot – and I mean a lot – of heavy-duty scaffolding, cleared out a shed, which is to be used for drying fat (don’t ask me what that means), and to top it all, I finally cleared a large patch of brambles in order to make way for some elderberry trees. It was a prickly hopeless business.
The result? A serious pain in my back, and a pinched sciatic nerve. It’s a bloody nightmare, so it is. But hey, a hammer, used for extra pendulum force, does wonders if the hammer’s head hits the exact spot in the thigh/backside. Highly recommended. Or maybe not.
In return for my efforts, I shamelessly pinched a bushel of apples from the farm people’s garden without asking their permission. Later on this evening, there will be stood a steaming hot apple pie on our table, served with custard and vanilla ice cream. I don’t regret a thing.