Lethargy: The New Olympic Sport

I really want to get my rear end in gear, but right now, I think if I did it would leave the rest of me behind. If Lethargy was an Olympic sport I’d win Gold every time. Although having to wait four years to be lethargic would take a lot training. I don’t know how long I could keep it up. If the event were on today, I would out Letharg the World.

I’ve got to bake, and I enjoy baking. I love making cakes, I like baking bread and pies and crumbles. Today I just can’t get started.

I think I’m coming down with something, something yukky, something I’ve caught. I was wrapped up like a pass the parcel, bra, cami, t-shirt, and a sweatshirt. I went out with the dog in a bright yellow winter waterproof and a red handknitted scarf. Fashion gurus eat your heart out, the purple wellies blended perfectly. Not to mention the fact that my hair is red again. Not a crystal auburn flourish of golden orange, red, Christmas Santa red. The thing is, even wrapped up like a bag lady I still have a deep chill in my chest that I just can’t shake.


No, don’t panic, I’m a woman, it’s never going to happen. I’m immune. Snotty nose, maybe a cold, maybe if I was unlucky a touch of pneumonia, pleurisy, bubonic plague, but never manflu. We women just don’t put up with such irritants.

I haven’t even had a sniff, just a cold chest and it’s driving me up the bloody wall. I always joke about the cold getting into my bones and needing to wait for the fat to melt before the heat can reach them. Being a woman that has plenty of insulation it takes a tad longer for the process of reheating my bits to get going. But this is the second time my oversized passion puppies have failed to give sufficient thermal coverage. Me boobs have failed the cover up test. The only conclusion, they have fallen down on the job. They are now keeping my belly warm, exposing my chest to the chills of the Autumn.

It’s one of those things that they never put in the menopause leaflets, “boob droppage”. We all get it ladies and we all spend a fortune on bras to pull them back into place. Last night I had to wear two bras’ as the costume I was wearing had a belt on it, and I don’t do belts as the overhang tends to cover them, not to mention not being able to see the buckle to do them up. All I can say is I’m grateful that I had my first pair of jeans before the puberty explosion. I can feel for the button and zip, but belts are a different kettle of fish.

I needed something to warm me up. Clothing wasn’t the answer, I needed good old fashion Vicks chest rub. Failing that the next best thing, (after finding the Vaseline, a million and one hand creams, you know the ones that are in the bathroom smelly boxes you get, and never use, antibacterial dog anti-itching cream, a cream that had his mother’s name on and a long drawn out name I couldn’t pronounce) Voltarol. It’s warming, what can I say, and it itches, boy did it itch. Note to the World and myself for future reference. Don’t put Voltarol on chest, no matter how tempting it gets.

Second shower of the day out of the way, I’m still no better. I still have a cold chest, red hair and a cake to bake. Not to mention washing up from last night. You see as far as the kitchen is concerned if we have a late night which happens 8 out of 7 nights a week, (Don’t judge my arithmetic, it’s my excuse for not washing up and I can exaggerate as much as I like) the kitchen doesn’t get done until the next day. Last night was choir night and we all dressed as Elf’s, hence two bra’s and wearing a belt.

It may be the hottest day of the year; the oven may well be on and the tumble drier and the heating but that kitchen still has a chill in it. So right now, my arse is firmly parked on the settee, my chest aches and I’m not moving. I’m practicing for the Olympics, that’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it. If they can add softball and skateboarding to the Olympics next year, it won’t take long for computer games and then Lethargy to catch on.

I know I have to move, and I can hear you all, (hello out there, all 7 of you) asking why I’m threating over baking a cake. Well it’s like this, it’s cake club tomorrow at Mark’s company and I’ve bought Blueberries for the cake. I’d hate for them to go off and have to throw them out.

I’ve done whinging and I’m going to arse kick myself into action, one cake, washing up and a cuppa to warm me up. I can’t see me winning the Olympics, however if they ever decide to add moaning to the list of events, I’d come a close second behind the man with flu.

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