In Which I Finally Replace The Deposed Albert With Mr. Toad

So today I resume the part of my life that was derailed on 9.27.

How odd it seems. I am no longer, what was the Larkin line, a "...wax-fleshed outpatient/still vague from accidents..." taking the sun in the park, awol from "the toad work."

It seems out of character to arise and -- exercise. As in physical therapy. I am a sloth's sloth. Physiculture is and always has been my anathema. But change we must and do. ("We must, we must, we must increase our bust" is a silly refrain that occurs to me when I do the stretch-the-red-band across the chest exercise.) I sort of like the exercises. Except for the fiendish little number called "wall angels." Don't even ask. I have a new (and probably permanent) little grinding sound when I turn my head right -- like pulmonary rales, a little kkcchhht. Trivial. A memento. For those days to come when my excellent therapist says "you won't even think about your neck."

So its back on the train, or on the tracks. Or the toad.