It’s a sad state of affairs but I’m afraid I must utter the F word again. No, not that one, I mean the other one. The one I get sick and tired of uttering…

Fibromyalgia!

Yeah, that one.

Its gone and got in the damn way again this week and I’m annoyed because prior to this flare up things had been going relatively swimmingly. I’ve got a new novel out in BEASTIE and I’ve been promoting the blessed thing as much as possible with the limited energy that I have and, furthermore, there’s been a few sales on the horizon (see what I did there – sales, not sails).

And now… well, its all ground to a juddering halt.

We spent last weekend on the boat (Friday to Tuesday) and I’m sorry to report that the physical nature of boating life has rendered me fatigued and in mortal agony. In addition, being absent minded, I forgot to charge up the new massage gun and so the pummelling I was hoping to unleash on my biceps and calves today never happened.

I’m sat here typing this to take my mind off it while it goes through its three-hour charging cycle.

It was a lovely long weekend in many ways. We caught up with a lot of old friends and spent quality time with our epic granddaughter and we imbibed a glass of vino or two along the way. And then, on the last morning, we had to get rid of our rubbish and take the cassette toilet to be emptied. Anyone familiar with canal boating will readily tell you that it’s not so easy as it is in a house.

You can’t just put your bin bags out for those nice chaps in hi-vis from the council to collect and likewise, one can’t just jettison one’s leavings any old where but instead the foulness you have collated over several days has to be taken to something called an Elsan Point and deposited hence.

It’s labour intensive and, in our case, involved a fairly lengthy journey on foot with a rickety festival trolley and an overly anxious labrador.

Now, having arm muscles that are about as much use as a drum kit in a library and legs that quiver and tremble with only the bare minimum of exertion, I found our mile long walk to the Elsan somewhat challenging to say the least.

In fact, challenging doesn’t really do it justice at all. Crossword puzzles can be challenging, what we endured during that hellish hour and a half was something akin to a forced route march at gunpoint. And I must be completely honest when I say that my lovely Ange did the vast bulk of the work. I held onto the anxious lab until my back couldn’t take anymore of his pulling on the lead and I had to stop at one point and have a quick blast of GTN spray to calm my pounding heartbeat. There was a brief moment when I honestly believed that an ambulance might be required.

Thankfully, I pulled through and with a gargantuan effort on both our parts we ascended Five Rise Locks like Hillary and Tensing summiting Everest. The fact that several elderly ladies with strollers and a small child on one of those pedal-less bikes with stabilisers attached overtook and got up there before I did is not something I am particularly proud of.

But praise be to Almighty God, the café at the top of the locks was open and we were able to refresh ourselves with sandwiches and drinks. That was quite pleasant, for a while, until the picnic bench seating we were sat on came up to meet my weight on the other side and my back end felt like it had been kicked all the way we had come. In short, I was in a mess.

How on Earth would I get back to the boat?

The solution was a simple one.

A taxi.

Ah! You may say, why didn’t you get a taxi up there in the first place? The answer to that is obvious to me. It’s hard enough to get a taxi in Bingley that will accommodate a dog but to get one to carry a plastic box full of sewerage is another matter altogether.

But with the cassette now empty and thoroughly cleansed it wasn’t too bad, although Ange and I had to take separate cabs due to said labrador being an absolute nob. But that’s a story best kept for another time.

Needless to say that our mission was a success. A slow, painful one but a success none the less. Then it was just the small matter of getting home and I really don’t want to go into details about that journey because I’m rather miffed about it. Again, perhaps a story best left for another time.

And so, we’re now into Thursday and I’ve done bugger all since that monstrous climb up Five Rise except take Bella out to do her business while her mum, Val, was out for the morning. I wanted to write yesterday, I really did. Unfortunately both the spirit and the flesh were weak in this one and I pretty much spent the day feeling terribly sorry for myself. The sheer effort of emptying a chemical toilet has left me stiffer than a vagrant’s underwear and even composing this blog post has felt like a struggle.

Oh I’ll be back, I know I will, but for now I just have to accept that my arse is being rudely felt by fibromyalgia and I desperately need to stop now and have a hot milky drink and a brace of tramadol. In fact, I’ve felt so physically horrendous that this morning I forsook asking Alexa to play some progressive rock in favour of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons. That’s how bad it is!

See you all anon and don’t forget to check out BEASTIE or any of my books; they’re all thumping good reads.