To Graham’s mother this morning, leaving himself to go off with a gaggle of old ladies on a shopping trip/day out at Aberavon. I’ve not been there. Graham now says I don’t want to.
He’s almost always right on these things, and you may ignore the ‘almost’ if you wish.
It was my day to visit the doctor at my local clinic, my first doctor-level contact. She seemed to feel less than polite about the level of care she found to be evident in my cardiac medication history, and was positively scathing about the state of my ankles and calves. The upshot is that I’m now off the diuretic and on to a low-dose–to be followed up and reassessed monthly–ACE inhibitor (Ramipril, for the record) which she feels will suit me better, do the job of a diuretic rather more kindly, and keep a watching eye on blood pressure.
I have some small misgivings about ACE inhibitors but will go along with the programme because I get the distinct impression that she’s determined to establish a good level of care and to improve my general health and mobility. She actually understands the vicious cycle of inactivity and weight build-up caused by the mix of retained fluid and osteoarthritis.
I’m hopeful but… we shall see.
Returning home, just about lunch time, I tried out our local chippie for cod-and-chips. Scrupulously clean and well run, and good quality ingredients but, somehow, not quite right as a chippie. I’m pleased to have the place there but I shall have to start out on the search for a proper steamy old chippie once more. A good chippie has something of the Thoreau double-warming about it on a winter’s day: you get warmed while you wait in the steam and the familiar atmosphere, and then once more when you unwrap your fish’n'chips to eat the steam-hot, finger-burning goodies.
Dib, dab, pick and poke, a paper hole,
finger fish flesh with tender care,
white slicey slices all greasy and nice
oh, sizzle fish and stickle chips,
steamy street lamp food delight.
Then, home, stretched out on the sofa with Dolly for the afternoon while the TV murmured its way through two old John Wayne westerns.
Graham’s mother drove him home in the late afternoon, spending just enough time to inspect the works before driving off to get back before dark.
“So it’ll have to be Porthcawl next, then,” I said when he’d told me of the kind of place Aberavon is and the kind of day he’d had.
“We shall see,” he said.
