How are you?

A question people seem to ask each other all the time, so it's odd that most who do ask it don't actually want an honest answer. One of my colleagues asked me the question as I arrived at work yesterday lunchtime, but when I answered 'shit', the conversation came to an instant halt. After all, I was only telling it like it was - I did feel pretty rough, although it was partly self-inflicted, in that I had substantially more than was strictly good for me to drink on Sunday, and had woken yesterday morning with a bit of a hangover, but, on top of that, it was one of those days when my heart medication hadn't had as beneficial an effect as it usually does. The pills, around 95% of the time, keep my arrhythmia under control and allow me to pretty much lead a normal life, but there are days, maybe one every two or three weeks, when they don't kick in as effectively, and yesterday was one of those days. I have talked to my doctor about the phenomenon, and have been told there's not much that can be done about it, because I'm on the maximum safe dose already. Just one of the joys of growing older, I suppose.
Of course, it wasn't just physiological factors that led me to give my succinct answer to my colleague's question yesterday. Apart from imparting the news about the cat when I spoke to her on Sunday, most of the rest of the conversation I had with my wife was, predictably, about money issues. Given that I'm already working more or less seven days a week, it's difficult to see how much more I can do - Sunday was my only day off, and that after not having finished my Saturday night shift until 7:30 in the morning, in around two and a half weeks, while my wife is not only still unemployed, but not making much discernible effort to change that status. As I've said before, I've no intention of shirking my responsibilities to my family, but a bit of help wouldn't come amiss.
There are usually a few bright spots to alleviate the gloom, though, and the past weekend wasn't at all a bad one in the 'cutie stakes'. There was a good example of one of the more arcane pleasures boys can bring me while I was waiting for a bus on Sunday morning. A youngster, maybe around 11, passed by with his family on the opposite side of the street from the bus stop, not markedly good looking, although not hard on the eye, either, but what really attracted my attention was the way he moved, such grace and fluidity, and all completely natural, because he was, after all, just walking down the street. I could, quite happily, have watched him all day, rather than just the couple of minutes he was in my field of vision. Many would probably say I'm mad as well as perverse for having a thing about how boys move, and maybe they're right, but this was another quality which DBJ absolutely epitomised - I've almost never seen anyone, of any age or gender, who flowed as gracefully as he did. Even though he'd be 15 now, and even though I haven't seen him for almost two years and almost certainly will never see him again, I still miss him, every single day. Sad bastard? Mea culpa.


Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B