The above would be a definition of me. I was so anxious to go back to work. The thought of a full wage was, or course, a factor. And it's not as if I'm doing anything I wasn't before the plague hit us. For the past 15 weeks I have run 10K everyday. My personal course is mostly uphill with a final relaxing one mile canter down the other side. I've also worked out every single day. So, I thought, fit for work.
Not a bit of it. My first day back on Wednesday was almost my last. I was so exhausted by the time I got home that I almost walked on the cat, who remonstrated by gouging a pound of skin from my ankle. Thursday was just more misery and yesterday almost finished me off.
On the upside, I got to ride my motorbikes every day for the first time in months. But thinking about it, that wasn't an upside at all. Only certified maniacs actually ride vehicular transport in London of their own free will. And to think I used to believe that Rome and Paris were bad.
By this time next week, all will be back to normal and I'll be fine - unless terminal exhaustion or a lunatic lorry driver doesn't do for me first.
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