Another twenty-four hours gone and I’m still not feeling any side effects from the swine ‘flu jab so I think I can give thanks, and forget about it. At least now if I’m one of the very few people who catch it I can say I did all I could to avoid it. If I’m one of the very few people among those who catch it and need to be hospitalized I can say I did all I could to minimise it. And if I’m one of the tiny number of people among those, and who go on to die from it, I shall be careful to avoid saying anything further about it. Ever.
I think we concern ourself far too much over these things.
So. Yesterday started out with much promise. I’ve mentioned that my next door neighbour is having a roof extension put on his house. The day produced the climax of construction activity, with crane operators, steel supply operatives, timber delivery men, plumbers, electricians, labourers, scaffolders, and a host of uncle Tom Cobbeley’s all arriving at once, filling the road and every parking space with great throbbing machines of one kind or another.
Graham and I were fascinated; better than the telly any old day.
Our neighbour was in a high state of agitation from start to finish. He has a project manager, who was on site and seemed to be as much in control as any of that type ever is, but that made no difference. He seemed to want to be involved with every tradesman, every combination of tradesman and each and every delivery. ”You ought to hop in your car and go play a good long round of golf, M,” I said. ”I can’t do that. I have to stay and look after the dog.” ”Take the dog with you,” I suggested, but he was already on his way to inspect and supervise some other aspect of the build. The dog, wisely, stayed in the house and hid from all the kerfuffle.
“You know what,” I said to Graham. ”It’s almost as fraught for me watching as it is for poor M. himself.”
“Know what you mean. I’m almost as tired watching him dash about as I would be if I were doing the build myself. More, probably.”
“You’re right. What say we go shopping, and have lunch in Sainsbury’s.”
Which is what we did. Graham thought it was such a good idea that he didn’t realise I was being sneaky, having the same meal as he did. Scampi and chips and garden peas, with a good dollop of tartar sauce on the side. Delicious.
Scampi and chips
“You’re not supposed to have chips,” he said. ”And I’m not sure about the scampi, either.”
“I know. Tell you what, you can have half of my chips.”
“Nah. It’ll not hurt this once. I’ll be watching you for the next week, though.”
So I finished my chips, with a little help from Graham. I confess I seem already to have reduced my appetite for fatty foods. And that can’t be bad.
