Resentfully Relaxing

Aug 10, 2025

You know what nobody tells you about taking it easy? It’s not fucking easy. It is, in fact, deceptively tricky. And yes, ok, so it's not so tricky that it's likely to ever become an Olympic sport. (Though that's an award ceremony I would love to see. “Gold goes to Senga MacFarlane, who astoundingly spent an entire 6 months playing Candy Crush on her phone while camped on her sofa watching reruns of Celebrity Bake Off.)

Anyway, I just want to point out that ‘taking it easy’ - or ‘getting up to nothing in particular’ as it's known in this house - is difficult because it's so incredibly dull.

Now that my wrist is teetering on the brink of being back to normal, and I’ve experienced the glorious sensation of my ‘taking it easy' days beginning to dwindle, I've been indulging in a spot of upcycling. This is a swanky way of saying I've been picking up (not physically obviously) free shit from Facebook Marketplace and jooshing it up to make it fancy.

Mark doesn't always love my upcycling, as it invariably involves him going off and picking up some dust-covered monstrosity from some random part of LA. Once aforesaid monstrosity arrives at Tweddley Manor, the jooshing commences until I turn whatever object it is into something that, Lachlan reliably informs me, ‘Wouldn't look out of place on the set of The Munsters.’

This time it was, what over here they call, a hutch. In the UK, it would be called a display cabinet, which seems much more sensible, because it’s basically a big cabinet that used to display things. They were often to be found in dining rooms in the 1980s, displaying fancy plates, or your figurines, or old Victorian teapots.

We don't have fancy plates or figurines, and we’re less of the teapot, more of the mug, but since we moved the piano out in the backyard for the chickens (and yes, it is still magic waking up to the sound of a wee feathery sonata), we have space for a cabinet.

On the Facebook ad, the hutch claimed to be genuine wood, but it turned out to be some kind of formatted Formica chipboard affair made to look like wood. I didn't care though. That only made it more legitimate for a spot of jooshing.

I knew I wanted to paint it black, but my Physical Therapy People were still firmly of the opinion my wrist should be ‘taking it easy’. For a couple of weeks, the hutch sat in the living room in all its faded splendour. I'm guessing it was very sophisticated in its day, but then, weren't we all.

In the end, Mark agreed to paint it for me, after I'd argued that operating an electric sander really was the very definition of relaxation.

Once black, the hutch looked much happier - as did Mark, actually, who, encouraged by the change in the look of it, announced he might have some shelf lighting in the shed that would cheer it up a treat. I didn't even have to pester him to install it.

All that was required then was that during a spot of enforced ‘taking it easy’, remembering I had some tartan fabric from the old country, and tweaking together some panels to perk up the back of the shelves. And Ta Dah. A cabinet Herman Munster would be thrilled with.

Renew, reuse, recycle, as the kids call it nowadays, and I am all for it as the perfect sort of distraction.

Turns out I am up for a bit more of the upcycling this coming week. Unfortunately, this time though, it is completely physical, as I'm heading off for surgery.

Esophaguses, or esophagi if you like, are not strong points in my family. My Dad died of Esophageal cancer, and there's plenty of dodgy esophagus matters with other family members - which is their story to tell and not mine.

My own personal esophagus, as it turns out, is in a less impressive state than a hutch you find for free on Facebook Marketplace. It too needs a bit of jooshing. But fortunately, I have found a lovely wee French gastro surgeon who is just the man to do it.

I am simultaneously thrilled and completely unthrilled about it. Only a lunatic wants surgery, but equally only a lunatic wouldn't be mahoosively grateful that the problem they have can actually be dealt with.

I’ve had surgery before. The pressure is on the surgeon, not on me. My part is really just a matter of turning up and nil by mouth. For most of it, I'll be flat out on drugs, and then there’ll be the period of ‘ouchy.’

But after the surgery, as soon as I open my eyes with my new jooshed-up esophagus, it will be merely a matter of minutes before someone will tell me to ‘take it easy’ and I'll have to bite my lip so I don't say, “Do you even know me?” And the whole cycle will have begun again.

I'm coming to the conclusion that patience may not be one of my strongest points. In fact, I'd go as far as to say patience may be the esophagus of my personal qualities - as in pretty fucking dodgy.

You see, in life, I have a very distinct pattern: I see a problem. I resent the problem. I might even decide to completely ignore the problem for a bit. But when I decide something has to be done about the problem, I just want it fixed. Changed. Sorted. And then I want to move on. And repeat.

But sometimes you just have to sit on your arse and wait. Sometimes, by pushing and prodding and resisting, you can make matters worse. And yes, arguing that an electric sander is so relaxing they ought to have electric sanding classes in health spas, might get your upcycling done. But fighting ‘what is’ means you're missing out on that period of time in between. That period where you get to improve your rank on Candy Crush is also the space for reflection. And reflection - as all reflective people will reflectively tell you - is the prime nourishment of wisdom.

My Dad used to say that in life you should do what you want to do, and if you can't do that, do what you have to do. But you have to make space in between to work out what has to be done in the first place. And I'm guessing that's what ‘taking it easy’ is: Space.

But it's stupidly hard to make space when a problem is running at you. Or if you're feeling vulnerable. In times of stress, ‘taking it easy’ feels like absolutely the last thing in the world it's possible to do.

And yet how can you work your way out of any challenge if you don't take time to let the dust settle and give yourself space to think?

With that in mind, I've decided that later this week with - fingers crossed - my esophagus all wobbly but jooshed up, I shall be taking some time to feed my wisdom by sitting on my backside and achieving precisely buggar all of note. The free monstrosities on Facebook marketplace shall remain blissfully ignored, and construction on the The Munsters set shall come to a grinding halt.

For I shall be undertaking the extreme sport of ‘taking it easy’. Well, I'll be trying. I can't predict how successful I'll be at it because, even though it's not part of the Olympics, it is still really fucking hard.

PS: Every time you click on the wee heart emoji on this post to like it, somebody somewhere does a spot of jooshing. That’s a lie obviously, but it does wonders for my algorithm and I am incredibly grateful. xo

P. P. S: If you enjoy talking/listening/stories/ random facts, come and join me and Mr Tweddle this Thursday at Fish and Bear. This Thursday we will be back a MacLeod’s in the Magical No-Kings-dom of Van Nuys. xo

And because I am totally showing off - look, I have a book for sale. Written when I had two fully functioning arms - though no better grasp of punctuation.