Monthly Archives: March 2010

Today it started out reasonably mild, with a light, misty rain.  And one of the best, most beautiful dawn choruses I’ve ever heard.  Chilly breeze, though, which whipped up as the light increased.

As did the rain.  And then the hail storm.  And then the snow.  Nasty, wet snow, of the kind that’s designed not to settle but to hit you hard with horrid, clinging globs of cold.  Enough to freeze the warts off a witch.

Walking from the supermarket to the car was an ordeal.  Walking from the car to Graham’s mother’s flat was an agony.  Walking from the flat back to the car was an exercise in sweet self torment.

“When we get back home,” I said, “can we stay inside in the warm for the rest of the day, please?”

“You betcha we can.”

And then, earlier this evening, we got to talking about our early days.  About punk.  About the Sex Pistols.  About Hazel O’conner (sp?).  And then, finally, about Poly Styrene and Xray Spex:

“Were we ever so young?” I asked.

“Hard to imagine.”

“Did we ever do the pogo?”

“Oh, yes.  We did the pogo alright.  I don’t think you ought to try it now, though.”

“No.  I think one good pogo would kill me.”

It seems as though March has got its message mixed. Sure, it’s going out like a lamb, but one that’s just out of the freezer.  Not nice.  Not nice at all.

We’ve been busy, though.  Yesterday the new oven arrived and Graham had it installed and the housing unit re-built in time for a late dinner.  It’s a delightful oven, simple, cheap, and fit for purpose.  And it did a lovely job of oven-backed fried chicken pieces, tomatoes and baked potato.  Today it heated onion bagels to perfection.

Now he’s laying cork on the landing, and it’s looking good.  We are leaning towards having cork floors in the bedrooms and studies, too, but we have time to decide that.

He’s been invited to go work at the holiday camp for the Easter weekend and the following week.  And, like as not, for the two transvestite weeks later in the year.  He promises me that he’ll not weaken and do the whole season, so I’m happy with it.  I don’t think Dolly and I will have a problem with the occasional week, but anything longer and we’ll be deeply unhappy with the situation.

Dolly’s been a little poorly after a funny turn Sunday night.  And then, just as she makes a splendid recovery, darn me if I don’t go and have a funny turn of a different kind this evening.  I’m making a good recovery, too, but I’m persuaded that my temporary smoking relapse must end in the next few days.  Dolly and I are feeling the unfairness of life just now.  Old age is a real beast, for cats and humans.

The young lady with the gel-laden scanning device had some difficulty in making a picture of my heart this morning and said she’d have to get a senior colleague to attend.

“It’s still there, though, isn’t it?” I asked.

“Oh yes.  It’s there.  Just being a bit shy.”

The more senior colleague appeared, seeming to me to be no older than the first young lady.  The main difference being that she applied a great deal more pressure.

Of a sudden I heard a “squelch, squelch, squelch” sound.

“Is that me?”

“Yup.  There you are.”

The two young ladies conferred, saying that there was no apparent enlargement, and that the valves are clear.

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“Your heart is fine.  But a consultant will have to see the pictures and readings and deliver an official verdict.”

“How long will it be before I go back to my GP for a further consultation?”

“Oh, give it about four weeks.”

And so, out I strolled, bearing my fine heart, ready to smile at a fresh but bright morning.

All’s well with my world.

I had a conflict to resolve today.  See, I have to go to the hospital in Port Talbot tomorrow for my echocardiogram (part of the recovery process for the documentation that seems to have got lost).  I don’t know Port Talbot.  It’s a place you pass on the motorway between Swansea and Cardiff.  You don’t actually go to Port Talbot unless you have a reason and until now, I haven’t had a reason.

I’d looked at the map, thrown my hands up in despair, and begged Graham to come with me as navigator on this first hospital visit.  The good soul agreed readily, in spite of his work load.

Then, on Thursday,  following a smelly cooking episode with our inherited oven, we decided to order a cheap electric oven from Wickes to see us through to the kitchen make-over next year.

Early Friday I was getting all excited at the prospect, expecting ‘next day’ to be the day after we’d ordered the thing.

“It won’t be today,” said Graham.  “We didn’t close the order until after office hours.  It’ll be Monday.”

“Oh, but you’re coming with me to the hospital on Monday!”

“Can’t be helped.  We’ll have to pin a note to the door while we’re out so’s the guy will leave it with a neighbour.”

I hummed and hah-ed, and agreed it was the best plan.

This morning, though, being up and about artificially early after the clocks changed to BST, I decided to do something about the problem.

I hunted through the Google maps, took directions from three sources, and decided that with the aid of my research and our trusty SatNav device, I’d be able to find my own way, leaving Graham at home to take the delivery.

“Are you sure?” Graham asked.  “Your navigation is sh*t these days. Or, being charitable, your navigation is interesting these days.”

“Don’t be silly, of course I’m not sure.  But I know a way to make sure.”

“Oh, what’s that then?”

“I need to go to Morrison’s for tomatoes.  I shall go via the hospital so’s I know where it is.”

Which is what I did.  Dear Jane, our trusty SatNav lady, directed me door to door, leaving me safely parked right outside the hospital main entrance.  I even walked across and into the building to locate the out patients department where I’m scheduled to be tomorrow at 11:45, covered in jelly and being scanned for… well, whatever it is they need a scratchy picture of your heart for.

And, on the way back, I dropped into a rather splendid Morrison’s in Aberavon.

And so, all brave and adventurous as I am not, I ventured into the Port Talbot General hospital today.  And into the Aberavon Morrison’s.

“I think I did quite well there,” I said when I got home bearing tomatoes, lemon cake, and a pair of juicy Danish pastries.  Well, who can go to a supermarket and leave bearing nothing but tomatoes.

“What did you think of Aberavon, then?”

“Much as I expected.  Much as I expected.”

I’ve been searching my brain for days and days, hunting down a quotation that I feel may explain my present state.  I just now recollected the author, which is something.  Given that and some diligent Googling, I found my quote in no more than ten minutes:

“The years between fifty and seventy are the hardest. You are always being asked to do more, and you are not yet decrepit enough to turn them down.” — T S Eliot

I’m not sure this version is entirely accurate.  I think there may have been ‘things’ after the more, and I seem to remember that the quote continues, importantly, saying that, [after seventy] one needs give no reason or excuse for the turning down.

This’ll do, though.  I decline to do what I do not want to do, and feel no need to excuse or explain.

So, I’ll not claim to have enjoyed my short break, nor to have hated it.  It was necessary, and that’s all I shall say on the subject.

We had a day by the sea, which was good, and I took a photograph, which is neither good nor bad.  Just enough, and that’s enough for me:

Waiting for the tide; Swansea Bay

I’ve been doing a lot of waiting for the tide.