The times I live in
THE STEPPING MACHINE
Last night, after yet another day spent largely in front of a computer screen (for reasons of both necessity and choice) – bar one short trip by car for a food shop – at about 5.00pm I deliberately set off to stride up to my gym for a session intended to ‘blow the cobwebs away’.
Despite the fact that in advance the flesh hadn’t been exactly willing I’m happy to report this expedition had the desired effect.
The only item of note that occurred at the gym was that I experienced a personal milestone whilst at my stepping machine in the cardio room.
Let me expand upon the background.
The stepping machines at my gym are arranged in a neat row, side by side, facing a wall-sized glass window overlooking the swimming pool, steam and sauna rooms and large jacuzzi on the ground floor of the establishment. These provide members exercising in the cardio area something to look at whilst pounding out the illusionary miles – that is, if they don’t prefer to tune to a radio or television station on the built-in TV screens – on their running or stepping machines.
When you hop up onto your vacant stepping machine, the first thing you do – that is, apart from donning your earphones and plugging them into the socket supplied under the TV screen – is to set the exercise programme you are about to use.
Via touchscreen technology you therefore choose the programme – I go for ‘moderate burn’ – which then requires you to provide some information:
How long do you want to exercise for [last night I selected ‘30 minutes’ and pressed the ‘tick’ button];
What is your weight [here the choice is either ‘kgs’ or ‘english pounds’, so I selected ‘english pounds’, tapped in ‘186’ and pressed the ‘tick’ button];
What is your age [I selected ‘65’ and pressed the ‘tick’ button];
What heart-rate level do you wish to attain [I selected ‘150’ and pressed the ‘tick’ button];
And then all you have to do is press the ‘Start’ button – and off you go.
[For entertainment I had chosen Sky News on the television for the specific purpose of catching up on the ‘Sexual Harassment’ scandal currently rocking the Houses of Parliament].
At things panned out – I mention this simply for the record – last night I got bored and fed up just pounding away after about fifteen minutes and stopped the session exactly halfway through. I then moved on to do my regular floor exercises designed to’ free up’ my back and hopefully make it more flexible after sitting at a desk all day.
Much earlier in this this section I mentioned that yesterday whilst at the stepping machine I reached a personal milestone of sorts.
As I was tapping in my ‘personal information’ to set the machine up, when I reached the ‘What is your age?’ question, I tapped in the correct answer: ‘65’.
No sooner had I done so than I realised the enormity of this statement.
It was going to be the last time in my life that I would ever give that answer.
The next time I go up to the gym [I very much doubt it will be today, more likely tomorrow] – when I reach that question at the stepping machine – I shall be tapping in ‘66’.
THE AGEING PARENT
A little while after lunch yesterday – about 2.15pm as it happens – I took to my bedroom to have my habitual afternoon snooze, duration normally somewhere between 20 and 60 minutes.
About half an hour later, by which time – after a fitful beginning listening (as usual) to whichever Radio Five Live show was being broadcast at the time – I had at last fallen into a deep sleep, I was abruptly awoken by a member of staff reporting that my 92 year old father had rung my smartphone to leave what had sounded like an urgent message.
Despite my sleep-induced confused state even I could appreciate that I would have to get up and attend to the situation, whatever it was.
Had he been left alone by his carer, fallen and hurt himself, perhaps?
Or was he just feeling lonely and – not being able to find his diary – just seeking to find out when next I would be going down to visit him? [Hopefully not. I’d only left him on Sunday evening after spending three days with him, the last hour or two reminding him again and again that I would be back first thing on Wednesday morning].
I played the voicemail.
“Gerald, it’s your father. I’m don’t know what’s going on. I’m at Three Bridges … and I’m not sure I’m going to get to … er … to that place where I normally stay. Can you call me back as soon as you get this message, or preferably come down as soon as possible to sort things out?”
I paused and (metaphorically) held my head in my hands briefly before reacting.
I then called my father’s carer.
“Billy, I’ve just received a very strange voicemail from my father. He says he’s in Three Bridges. Where are you two at this moment?”
“Well, your father is in the drawing room. I’m in the kitchen. I just left him a moment ago because he said he thought he’d like to have a sleep …”
“Not to worry then, I’ll just give him a call and tell him he’s not in Three Bridges, he’s actually at home, where he’s supposed to be, already.”
And folks, that is exactly what I did. And then waddled back to my bedroom and – after another ten minutes spent gradually drifting away – resumed my trip to the land of Nod for another forty winks.
