Hearts, Minds and Loungewear

I’m pleased to say I'm now at four weeks post op and doing well. ?

The response to Fixing Hearts and Fan Belts was amazing. I’m pleased it made many laugh, sorry it made many cry and delighted it ignited so much love for the Ford Capri.

One response questioned the relevance of the fan belt, suggesting a carburettor would have been a more suitable heart analogy.? I really didn't think it was the time to be pedantic with the guy who was about to open up my chest and re plumb my heart and, as Mr Kanani seemed confident with his fan belt story, why would I throw him elbow deep into the Haynes Manual carburettor chapter, covered in fluids and scratching his head over the inevitable left over bits?? A carburettor would have also immediately brought to mind my burgundy 1972 MkIV Triumph Spitfire rather than the Ford Capri and I would have lost that bond with so many of you.

Whilst not wishing to upset the Capri fans, the Spitfire was, however, my pride and occasional joy in the summer of 1990, a summer better remembered for Italia '90, Pavarotti, David Platt and Gazza's semi final tears. Great when it worked but it came with twin carburettors which demanded constant tinkering with a funny little tool.? You needed to pull the choke out at every red light to keep it ticking over. Who would have wanted to go into theatre with such high maintenance playing on the mind??

Things playing on the mind was an unwelcome feature of the first weeks at home and at odds with the general summary of being in good spirits. ?I found that I could get through those early recovery days in good spirits, take calls and visitors in good humour, but when bedtime or time alone beckoned it was very different. ?It was at those times that deep introspection and the enormity of the experience hit. ?They call it The Cardiac Blues apparently. ?I discovered it on nighttime Google.

Nights at that point were largely sleepless, stretching hopelessly ahead like an England run chase at the Cricket World Cup. ?It was those periods that really challenged my emotions (the sleepless nights, not the run chases - although they were equally desperate, featured several nightmares, frankly didn’t help, but sort of filled the day, albeit only for a bit when England were batting).

It was difficult to keep the mind from wandering, and difficult to keep those wanderings out of dark areas. ?Brief periods of sleep often featured disturbing dreams that sometimes prompted tearful awakenings.? I was feeling overwhelmed by emotions and a self imposed need to do something ‘meaningful’ with my new lease of life.? I read an interview that put forward a concept of Ten Times Braver - what would you do with your life if you were ten times braver in your approach and thinking?? I thought it had resonance and for many people it will, but for me, at the time, it was too resonant of the self inflicted pressure I was feeling. ?I’ve no intention of spending time added on just sitting on the sofa watching daytime television, certainly now that the Cricket World Cup is over, but I feel happier now with the thought of getting life back to how it was without the need to reinvent it. ?Weaning myself off the codeine has helped, improving sleep and calming the dreams.? The road to recovery was always going to have a few twists and turns and the emotional side has so far provided more of those than the physical.

One of the more unexpected twists has been a sartorial detour into loungewear. I don’t claim to have any fashion sense; T-shirt and shorts in the summer, jumper and jeans in the winter, simple shirt and trousers for work. Safe in shades of grey or blue that bring the best out of my natural happy-go-lucky, joie de vivre personality. ?Preparing for hospital though brought an unwanted twist and a last minute Marks and Spencer dash for a pair of dad pyjamas. ?That was ok, sort of, but unwittingly just the start of it ...

Discharge from hospital brought excitement, relief but also unanticipated challenge. ?I was advised that my default 501s were probably not the best for a still tender leg wound stretching from ankle to knee, so shorts or lounge pants would be better. ?November in North Yorkshire is too cold for shorts unless you’re a weather beaten postman, so I (very) reluctantly invested in a couple of loungewear sets from the cheaper end of Next Online. ?I had no intention of these being a long term wardrobe choice so was keen on keeping the investment keen.

And so I sat at home in front of the TV, sheltering from the named storm of the week, watching as England’s cricket team imploded in India, looking uncomfortably like a 50-odd year old Rupert the Bear mourning the loss of the honey jar and waiting in vain for a next unlikely adventure. ?My wife, bless her, had insisted on ordering the brighter, more patterned end of the range which she thought would counteract my northern monochrome complexion and give me 'a bit of colour'. ?Not good. ?Not happy.

What I really hadn’t bargained on was that due to my miserly budget allocation these snazzy numbers were 100% recycled polyester. ?Good for the environment not only in being recycled, but in generating enough static electricity to power our small village, although probably not once the neighbours’ Christmas lights kick in. ?If the timing had been better I would have submitted the outfit for Earthshot. ?As it was, the bottoms clung to my legs like an over sexed Jack Russell - the small dog, not the 1980's moustachioed ex England wicket keeper. ?If anyone approached I could generate sparks at a couple of metres, or feet as it still is in Yorkshire.

I decided to try jogging bottoms instead. ?Get the Nike ones, just do it, never mind the expense. Whilst an electric and pattern free improvement, I hadn’t anticipated the cuffed bottoms riding up to shin height every time I ventured from the sofa. ?Rehab walks had me tripping through the village looking like a fag free Andy Capp being dragged from the pub.? Ten Times Braver??

Into my third post op week, walking rehab was firmly on schedule thanks to Mrs B’s expert guidance. I ditched the joggers for a more Countryfile look of soft corduroy (costing a bloody fortune this) and made it up onto the top field behind the village. ?It felt like lockdown freedom all over again. ?From there you can enjoy the wonderful landscape that we are fortunate enough to have on our doorstep - long range views south along the Vale of York, the dark rugged North Yorkshire Moors out to the east and the layered northern dales unfolding as the view stretches to the west. ?Good for the heart, good for the mind.

Ruth is now back at work full time in an effort to fund my expanding loungewear wardrobe. ?A double whammy was this coincided with the Cricket World Cup’s schedule of daily games falling away. ?The prospect of Flog It, Homes Under the Hammer and Shite in the Attic doesn’t appeal and beyond SkySports the other channels remain an inaccessible mystery. ?I’ve got mountains of books to read, a book of cryptic crosswords, an Airfix E-Type Jag to make a sticky fingered arse of and a list of research articles I’d planned to study but still the days feel long.

It seemed a good time to get back on the bike and give the legs the gentlest of whirls on my trusty old Specialised, now attached to my similarly aged analogue turbo trainer. ?No connection to Zwift, no Strava, so obviously it doesn’t really exist but the dust it has been gathering confirms the physical and actual over the digital virtual. ?It’s good to be back in the saddle even with the resistance firmly set at 1 and the lowest gear engaged - anything less and I'd be floating like Mary Poppins.

My four week milestone was celebrated with a very short walk to our village pub, reopened by the community earlier this year after 13 years of closure. ?It was my first social venture out so not without some trepidation, not least because my last visit to the pub involved a very close escape from being dragged onto the floor by an exotic dancer at a Greek theme night. ?No, I didn’t know exotic dancing was a Greek thing either. ?As awareness of cultural appropriation is still catching on in Richmondshire we had perhaps anticipated the smashing of a few plates to accompany the ouzo and meze but never exotic dancing.? Knowing now how serious my heart condition was at that time, my newly repaired heart skips a beat - imagine the indignity if I hadn’t resisted the off duty hairdresser's twirling, dancing charms and had popped my clogs in the arms of Yorkshire’s finest (only?) Greek belly dancer ...

Thankfully there was no theme to negotiate on my return, just an iron rich Guinness, proving that good things do come to those who wait. ?Until the next time, cheers.