This evening we went for a massage. That’s something that is either wonderfully relaxing and a blessing for aching limbs, or an awful lot of pain, depending on how well my face fits into the hole in the massage table.
Tonight, the latter. I couldn’t get my head in the right place, or perhaps the seven pounds I lost during my time in Seattle were all from my skull, leaving my face without any padding, but either way I lay there for an hour and a half with an ever-more-excruciating headache. And all the time a small woman used her forearms to grind the flesh from my shoulders.
Not so very relaxing, then. My wife had no such problems. I won’t suggest that was because a baby provides padding, because I’m a gentleman and I don’t possess a death wish. However, when the grinding and separation of joints was done, I made her take me round the corner to buy an ice cream sandwich, because clearly that’s what you need if you’re suffering from jet lag or a stinking cold.
We went home to find a cockroach had been waiting up for us, which was thoughtful of the little guy, although he turned shy and hid under the fridge when I tried to show him how excited we were to be welcomed home by an invertebrate. I was going to show him with one of my best shoes, too.
Sadly, just as the massage didn’t bring me much comfort, and the ice cream sandwich was only a momentary glimpse of joy, so trying and failing to kill a cockroach wasn’t as wonderful as you might expect. I think the trouble is that I’m far too tired, and so the simple happiness that accrues from joint manipulation/ice cream/the obliteration of vermin was not to be this evening. Even reading a Lovecraftian horror novel only filled me with unease when I considered somebody had agreed to publish something with such turgid prose. If you can’t be cheered up by thoughts of doom and suffering, you really must need some sleep.