Monthly Archives: January 2009

Still here, still coughing, though things are improving.  My problem is, of course, that the house move taken together with the sudden change into cold, damp weather hit my system when it was at its lowest ebb.  I’ll be over it all in a few weeks and, this year, I shall take good care to build up my resistance before winter sets in.

Meantime, all I can do is soldier on, keep warm, keep the liquids going, and dreaming of warmer times.

Keep well.

You remember those Boy’s Own comic drawings of old men with winter colds?  All wrapped in blankets with hot waterbottles tied on, feet in a big bowl of steaming mustard bath, gloves, scarves, chair by the fire, chicken soup in a big mug?

You gottit.

Or rather, I gottit.

Again.

Anyone who is interested in world weather patterns will know that the icy hordes are gathering in the Arctic north ready to pour down over the Russian plains and out over Central Europe on their way to stomp all over the British Isles.

Which is no more than an amusing way to say that we have another bout of intense cold weather on the way.  Tomorrow or the day after, so I’m told.  And there was me yesterday, gazing out at the sunshine, looking for signs of Spring.

As it happens, my bones and innards decided in the early hours this morning that the cold had already arrived, and I woke coughing and spluttering and struggling to get warm.

I have, so it seems, gathered unto myself another winter cough.  Or it might be the same one, back after a nice peaceful rest.

Increasingly, so I find, winter and old men do not make good bedfellows.

We were all set to pay Graham’s mother a sunny day luncheon visit but it turned out she’s off gallavanting.  She does a lot of that, bless her, and is an example to us all.

“So, what shall we do now?” I asked when Graham put the phone down.

“Clean windows, of course.  What else?”

“I can think of a lot things we could do other than clean windows.”

“So can I.  So can everybody.  That’s probably why these windows are so grungy.”

“Oh.  Fair enough.  Cleaning windows it is, then.”

Window cleaning man

“What’s on the menu for today?” I asked, looking out glumly at an increasingly damp and miserable-looking day.

“We need to go to the dump.”

“Oh, what a joy.”

It wasn’t so bad, really, and in answer to my curiosity bone we took time to do a little exploration of the nether-regions behind the council dump and running alongside a monstrous viaduct carrying the main road past Briton Ferry and across to Swansea.  I’ve not verified my facts but it seems to be ex-industrial land that’s been flattened and made over to provide static facilities to accommodate gypsies and other travelling folk.  Rather frightening to find such a place so close to civilisation.  We did not stop.

Back home, lunch time, and a failure to agree on the better choice between pasties and sandwiches.  I did not fancy making sandwiches, and Graham didn’t fancy buttering the bread to make the job a little easier for me.

“Looks like pasties after all, then,” I said.

“Suppose so.”

“You don’t mind, do you?”

“No, of course not.  It’s just that I fancied some nice cheese salad sandwiches.”

“Sorry. My back’s not up to counter work today. Told you we should have picked up fish’n'chips on our way back to the house.”

“Grrr.”