Pins and Needles

Remind me never to have a tattoo. I've been stuck with the slenderist of needles by an acupuncturist in an effort to clear my energy channels and promote the healing process and, oh! how it hurt. The feet are so sensitive, such fragile appendages despite their brutal load-bearing function. I jumped, twitched and yelped as spasms, tremors and electric shocks shuddered up my legs, but eventually the needles were tweaked into their correct position and I relaxed. If you feel sorry for the acupuncturist, spare a thought for my charming dentist who visibly blanches when I appear in his surgery every year. It's not my fault. A childhood of terrible dental experiences culminating in being tied to the chair anaesthetic-free while a vicious drill jabbed at my nerve has left me terrified of pain. Should I ever be threatened with torture unless I revealed my children's whereabouts, I'd willingly hand over all their contact details, and likely times of accessibility. Let's hope it never happens. Anyway, I now have a herbal tonic and a fat bottle of Metatone recommended by a friend, so am feeling positive of an early recovery.

While I've been languishing indoors, the most beautiful freesias have appeared outside in two of my pots. The bulbs were a gift in the dark days of late winter, and I obediently if rather numbly planted them. I've never managed to grow freesias before, but there they are, bright heads on strong delicate stalks, a triumph of Nature.

The rain is crashing down outside now, with syncopated thunder adding its sonorous overtones. Both are competing with some Oliver Messiaen piano music on the radio, and to be honest the storm is more attractive to the ears, even if the view has been obliterated. The view will return. Messiaen will not.