Sunday, Sunday, be good to me..

Sunday morning. A good night.
Fresh coffee, warm toast, Sunday Times spread over dining table. Best morning of the week.
Yet, something missing. Yes, it's the old dear stuck round the corner, groaning gently (for effect) as she reaches for the surgical boot. ( For walking, not weaponry.)  

This alerts Best Beloved. 
In with coffee, papers and Is there anything else I can do for you? type questions.
When I ask for some fresh water, he chortles something about "Butlering".
I find that two consecutive requests provoke similar responses:
"0nly got two hands...".  

Dear Lord, evidently, I have been Butlering for the past thirty six years and patently have many more than one pair of hands....I am actually painting my toe nails as I type.( I jest, as only five are showing it doesn't somehow seem worth the effort.)

But I have Best Beloved's attention now, and he is watching as I swing in ungainly fashion back into bed. In an attempt to impress husband with my youthful flexibility, I land on top of duvet . 
Normally I would have sorted myself out, once I'd got over the exertion of hauling myself back into bed. However, I now have the full attention of spouse . 

"Allow me, " he says, as he takes charge of the duvet which is firmly pinned underneath me.

I assure you, there is no greater confirmation that one is no longer a spring chicken than when a strong man heaves and strains to remove duvet from under 78kgs of too too solid flesh. 

A salutary lesson to us all. Lopping off body-parts ( and a small bunion barely registers on the Salters) is no answer to weight reduction. 
The Sirt Diet book, however, is already under the bed. The safe haven of homework, I recall. 

I have, however, a blackthorn walking stick at the ready. Very useful for reaching inaccessible items. 

I might have to put one of those on top of my Listicle. ( I know... you want one too.)