Sausages

The dog’s kennel is not the place to keep a sausage.
Danish proverb.

I feel stronger. The sun has made a resurgence this week and even if the light is slowly leaching away from each day, this warmth and high, blue sky has been a brief reprise. Friends have reminded me of how winter can be inspiring and cosy; good for long boots and classic clothing. I am soothed. I have a stock pile of scarfs and socks. (Note potential winter hat!)

And there has been good news.

I am finally nearly possibly definitely maybe positive that I shall get a chance to go and do the Creative Writing MA at Bath Spa University. You have NO idea how complicated it has been to even get to the point of ‘fairly’ as opposed to ‘faintly’ possible. It has involved endless phone calls to the Department of Work and Pensions, rather uncomfortable ‘Disabled Student Assessments’ run ins with my bank, tears, tantrums and finally I am green lit. Sort of. Ish. If the local benefits agency decide to refuse me they will let me know about 6 weeks after the term has started. Ho hum. But I am EXCITED and life has purpose once more!

I have to thank my family, especially my Dad and my Mum (and extended family Susan, John, Hattie, Pol, Hannah, blogger pals and those on fb!) for their support and love with all this. I would have given up long ago without you!

So I am preparing! I shall have to commute between Cambridge and Bath going up at the weekend and coming back midweek. (I’m still looking for a cheap room in Bath..anyone got any ideas? If we don't find anything we will sleep rough and Grace will have to get used to pooping down deserted alleys when no one is looking. )

Talking of Grace I took her to my pole dancing class on Friday. I have been going into that gym for months and never a peep from the chaps behind reception as I walked through with dark glasses and cane...but last Friday, as I clumsily clambered through the doors hanging onto Grace, they leapt up horribly perturbed.

‘Can I HELP you?’ Yelled one spotty youth pointing accusingly at the dog and me.
I realised that he did not recognise me at all. He thought a blind woman had wandered into the gym by accident.

I pointed at Grace. ‘It’s her fault.’ I said. ‘She’s taking the pole dance class tonight. Gotta follow the dog...'

The youth swallowed and then gagged a small smile and nodded a curt ‘carry on then’, managing to look outraged, aghast and mollified at the same time.

Grace was a little anxious at first watching us jiggle around and then do funny things on silver poles but after half an hour she fell asleep. It wasn’t very flattering to hear her snore through the routines but she seemed happy.

As we left I glanced right but reception was empty. Then I realised that for the first time this year we were leaving into darkness. The end of summer had caught up with us and I had not even thought ahead. For me the outside of the gym felt like walking into a cafetiere of filter coffee before the plunger plunges; a thick, treacherous, darkness and I was frightened.

‘Hell,’ I thought. ‘I haven’t got my cane with me. I have a ruck sake and now added to this I have a BLOODY DOG to look after.….’ and then it sunk in at last. I have Grace and she is a GUIDE DOG.
DUHHHH!!!

All this time and I have been using my residual daytime vision and now there weren't no daylight! For the first time for real I had to give it up to her.

‘Steady,’ I whispered to her unsteadily as we stepped into the gritty night.

I slackened my grip, relaxed my left hand so I could feel her gentle pull on the harness and follow her as she moved adeptly right, left towards the lights of the underpass.

‘Steady.’

Back at the flat I filled her dog bed with toys and chews as she yawned and rolled her eyes.
She had not a clue as to what the fuss was about.

Spin

A spinning bike is a heavy bike that doesn’t go anywhere. It lurks in dark gym studios like some humourless marine drill sergeant waiting to torture the fat off your body. It Is not really designed for people and therefore a spinning bike is extremely uncomfortable so it was with some trepidation that we perched, feet strapped firmly into pedals and waited for the ‘spininathon’ to begin. Usually a swift 45 minutes will leave one dripping with sweat and gasping. We were going to be spinning for three hours.

It was for charity but even so you could see by the expressions of the gym reception staff that we had been deemed lunatic. We assessed each other and agreed with the reception staff. There were nearly 20 bikes ready and waiting but most people had paid their entry ticket and then stayed well away. I could hear their ghostly laughter even as the sound system started pounding out club classics circa 1998. However it was too late to unbuckle and flee. We had to spin.
Three hours later, two instructors, a dozen refills of the water bottles, a a clutch of energy bars and a banana and it was over. We high fived, shrieked with glee and promptly fell off the bikes our legs now made entirely of jelly.

The Arthur Rank Hospice…. Its for you baby.
Now wheres my bleeding gin and tonic…?