Aching all over

Yesterday, was a day of firsts. My husband made me breakfast!!! I know, an event worthy of a telephone call to The Guinness Book of Records, if only I’d had the time. This was by way of an apology for keeping me awake the previous evening. He’s recently started snoring before he goes to sleep though claims he can’t hear it. Darling, the neighbours in the block opposite can hear. He’s obviously going deaf. Time, I feel, to swap him for a younger model. Trouble is, as I keep telling him, I’ve still not met the man I’d swap him for. Maybe, I’ve not been looking hard enough.

Having eaten breakfast, I was then late for the Doctors. I like to get down there promptly at 09:00am to avoid getting in the inevitable lengthy, Monday morning queue. I needed a medical certificate for my personal trainer. You cannot undertake any form of sport in France without one. Forty minutes later I was in another queue in the Pharmacy. This place must be a gold mine, I’m for ever having to wait to be served. Not for me, you understand, I rarely touch anything medicinal, but for my beloved husband and his gout. After waiting for 20 minutes, I found out that they would have to order the wretched stuff. This left me with just enough time to dash to the shops for the newspapers and something for lunch, before my appointment with my new trainer.

She didn’t disappoint. Not only did she look the part, which I believe is important as it conveys the hope that with a bit of hard work I might emulate her, but she was also well prepared and has put together a rather fiendish interval training  programme containing every single one of  my least favourite exercises.  However, I’ve done enough gym work to know these are the ones I really need to do. She’s confident that we’ll see results and I don’t want to let either of us down. Today, I’m aching in bits of me that I’d forgotten about. Though it’s a pleasurable ache. I’ll be working in the gym on alternate days.

Yesterday was also the first meeting of the newly elected Committee for the cycling club. Fortunately, we’ve retained much of the expertise from the “old” committee which will no doubt prove invaluable as we try to build on what they’ve already achieved. 

This morning, I awoke from a good night’s rest, my husband’s in the UK snoring at my kid sister’s, the sun was shining and my bike was calling me. It was just one of those days where it was heavenly to be outside. In fact, just the type of day I moved here  for. In truth, the beauty of living here isn’t the weather in the summer, it’s the weather from November round to May. In the UK, it would be grey, overcast, maybe drizzling with rain and humid, whereas  here the sky was blue, the sky was clear and I could  see for miles from the top of Col de Vence.

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