Found Self panting on doorstep having been on another ridiculously long run. Am beginning to feel slightly disconcerted about newly programmed brain.
It’s now over a week since I have come back from Boot Camp and I have run every single day (except Friday and that was because it was it was the gorgeous Freya’s birthday and we were all forced to consume shameless quantities of seafood paella, red wine and play a very rude version of “I Have Never” which rendered my body pathetic the next morning).
Pushing open the backdoor, I staggered upstairs to find Ads still half asleep.
“I just ran up the shute, into Whitwell, through to Niton, along the Undercliff and then up that other very, very steep hill,” I informed him.
“I know!” I agreed whole heartedly. “It’s completely bizarre.”
I pulled the pillow off his head and lay my damp cheek next to his face. “And not only that, but as I was running I didn’t even FEEL any pain. In fact I was so painless that I began planning an entire novel that I’m going to write. I’ve sussed out the entire plot line and it’s faultless.”
I sighed and lay there, staring at the ceiling and feeling like I had eaten a funny 100% brain activation tablet like the dude from Limitless.
Feeling moonily fit but still mildly mistrustful, strolled into local Botanical Gardens with Ads and kids where annual Healing Festival was taking place.
What was usually a coastal meadow and playground where families gather, play football and have picnics in the summer was transformed!
A beautiful bunting fest, it was.
Teepees, gazeebos and Mongolian yurts were peppered all around and cross-legged goddesses were drumming, and hoola-hooping and belly dancing.
And gorgeous girls like Amelie were in their own little worlds, making bubbles.
Moony fitness rapidly turned into a frenzy of excitement as I hurried around getting a tarot reading here, an angelic Reiki healing there, a mandala drawing around the corner and a feast of falafel from the buntingified make-shift cafe.
Returned to find Ads tending the sweetcorn bbq. My neighbour, John, had just arrived.
Roodells was going ape on an African drum
Pickle was painting a dog on a five year old’s face.
The lovely GP, healing festival organiser, long-standing soul brother, artist, woodsmans and occasional vampire was wandering about being organisational.
All in all, quite a wonderful time, and extremely non-typical.
Back home. Turned on computer and went to delete massive list of junk in email spam box. By some some non-typical fluke, I actually cast an eye down the list of offerings for penis enhancements and saw … oh MY GOD … an email from the WordPress editor! To Say … oh MY GOD … that I … oh my Giddy Aunt … was going to be – pant, pant – Freshly Pressed!!
“Babe!” yelled Ads from downstairs in the kitchen.
“Urgh?” Completely gobsmacked. Felt like I’d won the lottery. And been Angelic-Reiki-Ised. And eaten a whole bottle of tablets from the movie Limitless.
“We’ve got to go!”
Walked downstairs like a zombie whispering, “I’ve been Freshly Pressed!” and wondering how the hell I was going to explain this accolade to all the people who have no idea what a blog is, let alone what it means to be Freshly Pressed.
Mum. That’s you.
At a very very posh forty-fifth wedding anniversary. Standing with best posture by small table covered in glasses of sherry (dry, medium and sweet) in the poshest of posh second homes to meet and greet a bunch of very posh types who I had never met in my life but who Ads is catering for (paella again).
Tapped foot and flapped midges away from sherry whilst thinking with slight edge of insanity, “I’ve been Freshly Pressed. I’ve been Freshly Pressed. I’ve been Freshly Pressed.”
Crunch crunch. Feet on gravel. More posh people arrived. These ones looked vaguely familiar – like politicians. “Hillew, hillew,” I greeted in most upper class voice. “Welcome. Can I interest you in a shot of sherry?”
Was not 100% sure if offering posh guests a “shot” of sherry was right terminology, but was not bothered. Felt limitless. Felt invincible. Felt Freshly Pressed.
Plopped a single ice cube into 100 beakers of gazpacho and shuffled around crowds of now-very-pissed posh people, chiming out “Gazpacho! Gazpacho!” Most were very polite and lovely as the very-rich-we-have-many-second-homes so often are and not condescending at all. Some a bit pervy but I brushed it off, supremely indifferent to all advances. At one point felt mildly nervous about slopping cold Spanish soup on their posh frocks and shirts and so continued to mutter mantra, “Freshly Pressed, Freshly Pressed” and immediately super-hero type feeling came back.
Helped elegant and hugely likable and very-wealthy hostess pop a few bits into the kitchen dishwasher. Kitchen was v elegant and beautiful, despite only being second home. Piano player was thundering out brooding Beethoven.
Despite ambient setting, felt preoccupied with getting home. Was aware of only really doing this to help out Ads and didn’t want to help too much in case Someone Posh And Wealthy With A Nice Kitchen got the wrong idea and thought I intended to clean up everyone’s plates
“That’s very helpful, thankyou,” smiled She.
“You’re welcome.” (I’ve been Freshly Pressed.)
“The food was lovely. Everyone is very complimentary.”
“Oh, that is fantastic. I’m so glad. Adam is a very talented chef.”
Scrape, scrape. (I’ve been Freshly Pressed.) Lah, lah, lah.
“So, do you work at many of these catering evenings?”
Breezily,”No, I’m just Adam’s partner. I have a training company and deliver workshops – and I’ve just been Freshly Pressed.”
Oops. Pause. Frown. Put down plate and forks and wiped hands. Wandered serenely out of kitchen, humming to self. Time to go whilst still feeling naturally sensational.
At home. In bed. Exhausted. Probably the most un-typical and exciting day in a long time. Limitless jogging. Novel plot planned. Healed by angels. Freshly Pressed. A Sherry Shot and Gazpacho Girl.
Can it get any better? Hoo-hoo!! Have yourself a gorgeous day!!