I often stop for a cup of tea in a little cafe that occupies a small corner of a former RAF base that used to fly Spitfires during WWII.
Yesterday, the cafe was filled by passing truckers and rather more well off types that are doing their final planning before jumping into their private planes and heading off for a jaunt to France or Spain. I never did manage to attain my ambition to become a pilot, so I watch them saunter off and climb into their aircraft, rather wistfully these days. My health problem now makes that ambition unachievable. And last night I had what I suppose was an anxiety attack.
Earlier, I had twisted my back looking over my shoulder while reversing the car and the resulting back pain that night was exactly what I experienced before my heart attack. A part of my brain is always monitoring my body for dangerous warning signs and fighting paranoid fear over what are in reality trivial aches and pains, is sometimes hard.
Late last night I was once again feeling very mortal and trying to decide what to do. The big debate in my head: should I cause unnecessary worry to others and voice my concerns or just ignore it? I decided in the end I was being stupid and as you can read, I'm not dead yet!
Unnerving to have such genuine memento mori, Peter. Glad you're not dead yet, and that's a unique photo combining old with current.
ReplyDeleteHad forgotten that MP bit about the king—in fact, I probably missed that reference entirely. Thanks.
True, and true, Jan. Thanks again for visiting this old crock!
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