Jam Tomorrow

 I had finished picking the ants and spiders out of the blackcurrants, and had discovered some more occupying valuable gin bottle space in the freezer. "Time to make jam" I thought, and consulted the book; apparently the 2 kilo's of sugar I had brought back from Lidl weren't enough - nearly, but not.

"Fridge jam then."

Simmer to break up, add the produce of half of Lincolnshire (no, not bacon and sausage, the other half) add acid to kick off the pectin, "boil rapidly for 10 minutes or until it reaches the setting point". Experienced preservarists know that this instruction is bollocks! Never has setting point been achieved within 10 minutes. With heavy heart I added the sugar/preserving thermometer to the Maslan, turned off the smart meter to avoid heart failure, and turned on the ring. Outside it was kicking the 30's, inside above 37 - I'd stopped sweating.

The sugar thermometer stayed 1 degree (Fahrenheit!!) below the magic "Jam" line for about an hour while the jam itself roiled and geysered, redecorating the splashback, the hob, anything within reach, including my forearms. The mercury stayed resolute - the little engine that couldn't be arsed - "I don't think I can be bothered, I don't think I can be bothered, I don..."

Eventually it touched the mark, there were wrinkles on the saucer (ask your Granny) so I poured, and am now waiting for the satisfying "Plink" of the jam jar lids as it cools. It may end up as spooning jam, but my experience is that it will end up as Haribo jam. At the moment things are soaking and the kitchen looks like a boozy Friday Night at the abattoir.

Sub Par

 On February the twelfth the headache appeared on the horizon like a small cloud no bigger than a man's hand.

However, let's rewind to December 23rd...

I lay at the side of the road the "clonk" of my helmet's connection with the tarmac striking various chords along a theme of "lucky" in my noggin. The sprain of my wrist, the pull tag of my trouser pocket and my keys were all striking chords along a theme of "Ouch!" everywhere else. I achieved the vertical and took stock; everything worked, nothing graunched, no flashing lights, lost moments, dizziness or headache.

Cor!

I was on the way to Coz Buggins for Christmas on the newly-electrified bike, I had been distracted from the right-hander by a lane coming in from the left that I intended to return on, the assisted speed of the bike, being about double my normal pace, meant that I was on the bend before I knew it, touched the brakes, and  felt the rear wheel slide eel-like from underneath me on the leaf mould.

Having checked out myself, I checked the bike, both of us were intact, so I carried on, admiring the pallid blue of the bruise that formed where the tendons on my wrist had been overstretched.

Moving forward.

The headache did not respond very well to painkillers, however, stalwart that I am, I carried on.

On Sunday I was volunteering at Ashridge, post-shower my good knee, the left one had complained mildly, "How unusual." I thought. Halfway there my left leg started not to be able to keep up with my right, in other words my cadence was off, "How unusual." I thought. Arriving at Ashridge, I attempted to dismount and discovered that my left leg didn't seem to be there, "How unusual." I thought, getting up. I left early, falling into a muddy verge on the way home when I was forced to stop to let a car through, "Fucking typical!" I thought.

At this point I must have lost my presence of mind, because it was the next day after falling over while getting up, that I finally phoned for an ambulance via 111.

"It's four hours at the moment."

"Ok, is it Watford I'm going to?"

"Yes."

Reflection...

"Steve, can you take me to Hospital?"

And what a star he was, we arrived at three and he left at about nine, when my transport had been fixed.

Triage One A&E: 

"Probably a meniscus problem."

Note to self, do not lead with the graunch in the bath.

Triage Two Ambulatory Disorders:

"OK, a Doctor will see you shortly"

Steve and I both, "Shortly?"

"90 minutes?"

Triage Three Doctor Luke (Imperial - I forgive him):

Chorus, "We think Neuronal. We think he/I should have a CT scan."

"Alright then."

I am removed to a freezing basement and bundled into a machine, I am then put back onto a bed, this time removed from the demented lady screaming about being lost, but next to the drunk late-twenties bloke who has been done over outside the pub (after a couple of hours I come to believe that he has probably been done over by his mates - and quite right too).

Luke, "You've got a sub-dural haematoma, you're going to London."

"Where?"

"Queen's Square or Mary's"

"When?"

Slight evasion - "Tonight."

As we now have action, Steve departs to the bosom of his family after 5 hours in hospital, I am eternally grateful.

Nick and Tim hove to at the end of the bed with a trolley at about 11, an hour after done-over boy has discovered (loudly and profanely) that spicy chicken wings are not the best thing to order with a mouthful of exposed nerves. Forty minutes later we arrive at Queen's Square, Tim basking in the reflected glory of having set off three speed cameras in Camden.

I am transferred to a bed in the Bernard Sunley Ward, Bernard was a property developer in the fifties and later on, a philanthropist, when cousin-in-law Clive comes to visit later, we will have a round of speculation as to whether Bernard was assuaging guilt or the tax office. Someone arrives with a consent form to point out that if I die it's not their fault - regardless! 

Midnight, Michael in the bay next door starts into a round of night terrors.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Hello Mr Hayes I'm just going to draw on your arm to make sure we go in the correct side."

"Hello Mr Hayes, you're second on the list, should be going in just before midday."

"Hello Mr Hayes, there's been an emergency, but you should be done today."

"Hello Mr Hayes, you used to teach here?"

"I ran the labs."

"That'll do, can I have some Medical Students examine you?"

"Hello Mr Hayes I'm Renee and this is Destiny. May we examine you?"

My second brush with Destiny in two days.

In my demi-moribundity my ego is massaged by two registrars who stick their heads round the corner of my bay and ask,

"Are you really seventy one?"

Cousin Deborah appears bearing gifts, Clive and bonhomie, later her sister Lydia will come. Lydia appears as promised, I have warned all I can think of that I'm being visited by a scary Consultant, after a few minutes she goes to the Nursing Station and talks to Hannah, one of the juniors, it is like watching a balloon deflate, her head sinks, her spine curves, the corners of her mouth invert, after this I never see her again.

"Still got it."

"Hi Nick, you're still on the list.

At 10 pm a trolley and anaesthetist appear, I ask them to make sure that I'm the only one asleep on the table.

I come to, to find a man pressing a mask over my face urging me to "Breathe in, it's oxygen." I consent. The next time I come to, I find myself in a barn of a room with several bays full of wall-racked machinery and a human-shaped pile of blankets in a corner. There are two small Chinese girls flitting round the place in blue fleeces, at least I think there were, it might have been one moving fast. I decide to absent myself for some moments, and am woken up by my blood pressure cuff inflating. This happens several times while I remain firmly convinced that this is all a swizz, and that I'm dreaming. After another inflation I decide that this is too stupid a detail to put in a dream and that perhaps I'm not dreaming. At 4am I arrive back on the Ward (or do I?).

The next morning I decide to give it a go, and am amazed to see my left leg ascend towards the ceiling as if nothing had happened, I even get a round of applause from the nurses. I'm wearing a very natty headpiece consisting of a tube and a bag, in  the bag there's two hundred cc's of brain fluid, and presumably all my memories from the previous ten hours. If I hold the bag over my head will I get them back? I decide that this should be a thought thought experiment - a Gedanken Gedankenexperiment if you will.

I can now eat which, up to a point, is a great relief, that point being lunchtime. 

The cousins return (causing the Nursing Station to mysteriously empty) and wax enthusiastic about my returned mobility, I wax enthusiastically back, demonstrating my dexterity by moving from the bed to the chair by the bed, muted applause all round.

Tonight Michael does not have night terrors, instead he is woken up passed midnight for a wash, this does not wake me up for the simple reason that Garry opposite has been whiling away the time before his transport arrives to take him to Watford General by watching footy on his phone with his overbed light on. The transport due at five pm arrives at two am and Garry is (eventually) carted away, his light however continues to shine (a beacon of outrage to the somnolent, particularly those opposite) until I manage to get Nurse Sunday to turn it off.

The next day Steve visits, Dean visits, and the nurses start to agitate for my release, I can stay another night if I want, but I feel I'd rather sleep. Eventually the junior surgeon appears, to remove the drain and staple my scalp back together. At this point I must have lost my presence of mind, for, as the poor man prepared his tools with a modicum of ill temper, I said light-heartedly,

"My cousin who is a Haematology Consultant says that you shouldn't discharge me without a full physio assessment including a stairs assessment." at this point I think my jokey we're-best-mates intonation must have been a bit off.

"Can you walk?" He snarled. I assented.

"Well then. Lie on your left side.

STINGING ANTISEPTIC!

SHARP SCRATCH!"

"whimper"

"STINGING ANTISEPTIC!"

Upholstery done, I was given an envelope with the wherewithal for destapling and a potted summary of "Your hospital life - so far!"

Steve and I headed out into the 5pm calm of a London Thursday. The Metropolitan Line broke down as we approached it meaning that we stood all the way to Amersham, not one seat was offered, despite my demi-startled haircut, stick and institutional pastiness such is the charity of the average Londoner. I began to regret that I'd wet-wiped away the hospital funk earlier in the day.

There now follows at least four weeks of doing nowt - tis dull.

Death and the Midden.

  "Ping". You would have thought that a death knell would have a little more umph, but no, not several tons of bronze being man-hauled by a bunch of  Dominicans, but no, "Ping" not even "Ping!". I retrieved the phone, "Bowel Cancer Screening Program. Following the results of your test a pre-investigation interview has been set up with you on Monday at..." There was a slight lurch as the others round the breakfast table lost focus for a bit. I was finishing a week in the Peaks with the Coniston crowd, having indulged in a novelty game of Pooh Sticks with the BCRS about 10 days ago, consequently none of the bumf  (apt huh?), had caught up with me. So no handy leaflets and emollient statistics, just, "You've got cancer, you're going to die!"

The leaflets did something to soothe my troubled breast, I had the pre-investigation interview, genial persuasion to allow a colonoscopy, and was booked in for the following Monday (less than 2 weeks, who'd a thunk it). The following week was not the best, I was still determined to die - though reluctantly. I stopped watching Talking Pictures TV afrighted by the constant adverts for Funeral Plans. I bought the recommended zinc oxide to protect my tender parts from the inevitable results of drinking two and a half litres of Polyethylene glycol the night before. I consulted those who had undergone the process, "Terrible, the worst thing ever!" and "pah!". I got up at 5.00 to drink my final dose, hoping for a particularly difficult "Wordle" for the next 45 minutes, and had a final chat with myself on the merits of cycling to the hospital, or, to be more accurate, the merits, indeed the possibility, of cycling back! A small discursion on comparative anatomy persuaded me to continue on the bike, it would after all, be a spectacular miss on their part.

Hemel Hempstead has 11 rooms dedicated to colonoscopy for the BCSP, which I thought staggering, but then rationalised "money saved now vs money spent later". After donning my paper pants complete with rear entrance, I tried to chat to the gent in the next bed but he was too terrified, that put things in perspective! I was wheeled in to meet Scott Vigor - colonoscope-wielder extraordinaire and his team of two nurses, Gen and Aisha. 

"Do you want to watch?" Well, why not, I was always a fan of "Fantastic Voyage", though I doubted we'd find Raquel Welch up there, and hopefully not Donald Pleasance.

Let's begin:

Entonox 50% to get round the first bend, after that plain-sailing, that's blokes for you.

A series of black discs on the roof led me to despondency, I was dead, or colostomized.

"Got a few diverticulii there."

Aha, shadows, not dead yet, just moving past my gut sell-by date.

"There's a polyp, we'll get that and any others on the way back. There's another one, bit of a tiddler, we'll have that."

The polyp is lassooed, cut and sucked away down the tube. Cripes! But wait, there's more. The first polyp is big, 12mm, 

"That's not going to fit down the tube, we'll use the net..."

?

"and diathermy"

!!

A patch is slapped on my arse - the earth. A purple dye is injected into the base of the polyp to provide insulation and a marker, and then... and then, like a Mali fisherman casting from his dugout a net appears enveloping the polyp.

"Cutting now - that's it."

Gen disappears from my periphery, legging it across the room, at first puzzled, I realise that she is retrieving the net from however far up the bowel it is! Within seconds she is waving a specimen jar in front of me with glee,

"Here it is!"

I am wheeled back to the pre-op, where I am fed cake and squash and have my superfluous venflon removed. When I don't die, leak or vomit copious amounts of blood, I am released, I got to Iceland and buy Liquorice Flyers to celebrate. 

The pathology comes in the next day - benign. I will have another colonoscopy in 3 years and, if negative will be (appropriately) discharged.

It was the best daytime tv I've seen for ages.

A day in the life of a litter picker.

 

A man is standing in his garden, the summer breeze riffles his grizzled locks like a friendly grandfather, the zephyr slips round the hairs on his manly thews and exposed chest. Who is it? It is me, the Captain, starting the day with a breakfast peach in the garden, there are several reasons for this: I like peaches; it enables me to discern the temperature and pollen count; it avoids dribbling peach juice on the carpet or my shirt. I then retrieve the bike from the shed, strap on the grabber (the litter picker’s friend, an extension to the arm that avoids bending and the direct handling of festering rubbish, both of which are essential to the picker of a certain age) making sure it doesn’t grab anything important or compromise the steering, then I hit the road and start up the hill to Potten End.

Aha, the Pinot Grigio dumper has been back, there are now seven empty wine bottles scattered along the verge, now with the added bonus of a broken Vladivar bottle, why remains a mystery, teenagers on the raz, overflowing bins … SHAME? Who knows? Still this gives me a chance to hone my litter-spotting skills.

As I cross the golf course, I stop to pull some Himalayan Balsam, trying to ignore the half-acre I know is hiding just over the bank, and also trying to ignore the nettles that have discovered I’m wearing shorts. As I return to the bike, brambles wrap me in their spiky embrace like lovers spurned. Then, cross-country to Coldharbour, followed by Lady’s Ride, I pull up to the gate to check the Old Dairy field for deer, none, flippin’ wild animals never about when you want to see them!

There then follows a quick wheeze up Monument Drive, to strap the bike to the bike stand and a pop into the office to demonstrate my presence, and to check the “out-of-date" box for goodies, becoming mildly depressed when it reveals a welter of fruit jellies and nothing else. I then head purposefully out to the start of my run along Duncombe Terrace, I say purposefully, I actually head over to the PMV (Personal Mobility Vehicles) guys so that they can take the Michael out of my hi-viz, grabber, and monster plastic bag ensemble, then I head purposefully out.

Behind the gate there is a baby wipe, then another... and another, consulting my inner Sherlock and disdaining the prospect of examining said wipes in detail, I plump for: the devastation caused by exposing small children to ice cream! This is reinforced by the fact that the baby wipes stop after 500 metres, where they are replaced by tissues, as used and discarded by serious walkers. Tissues that give me time for introspection, two years ago at this time, I was in the Dolomites, battling my way up a black dotted path (those of you familiar with Alpine maps will know what this means, for those of you not familiar it’s a path that, if you fall forward onto, there may be a slight abrasion of the nose, backwards, and there may be a slight abrasion to the path, when you hit it - on the bounces), there, at every turn there is a tissue discarded by the “serious walkers”, personally I use a handkerchief and pockets.

I continue, more tissues, a banana skin, some cigarette butts. But, behind the “Observe-a-tree" bench there is a cornucopia of filth: first a tangerine skin (Pink Floyd – St Tropez pings unrequested into noggin*), tissues, a coffee cup and finally a plastic bag. Eyes glassy with fulfilment I continue: a packet of cigarette papers – empty, a packet of cigarette papers with the corner torn off (Ping! PF- Grantchester Meadows**), the front of a bicycle light, a bank card (is there anything I need from Amazon?), two Red Bull cans. There are, of course, the inevitable dog poo bags, this is new psychology, a bloody annoying meme. “I’ll pick it up, but then I can’t be bothered to do anything else so I’ll hide it. No, even better, I’ll hang it from this tree so people will see how responsible I’ve been!”

Then the breeze sends me a signal, I am within nose-shot of the septic tank at Clipperdown, my turn round point. On the return I head off–piste, disappearing into Hazel Copse to admire the clandestine off-road MTB track, and returning through the gorse to emerge near the Observe-a-tree again. I then head back to the Visitor Centre via the backs of trees (always good for tissues – I never study these closely, and always hope for a decent amount of rain the day before I pick) and climb the tumulus at Moneybury Hill, on the top I find – nothing(!), perhaps a respect for the dead, or more likely respect for the brambles? Ancient burial sites have always fascinated me, I find I always seem to lose a piece of myself there, this time a piece of my calf.

Back at the Visitor Centre I dump the bag, wash the gear, sanitise myself – liberally, and head back to the bikestand...

”You know you told us to tell you if we found any rubbish?”

I gurn assent.

“Well we’ve found a lot, a hundred yards down there by the meadow.”

“Umm, thanks, that’s not actually my pat... I’ll sort it!”

Emma gives me a new bag. I find a fish and chip supper with extra chips, 14” pizza box, plates for 6, spoons, napkins, and tomato ketchup – 2 pots, plus assorted detritus.

Back at the Visitor Centre I dump the bag, wash the gear, sanitise myself – liberally, and head back to the bikestand.

On the way back, I pass the apple tree in the back garden of Woodyard Cottage, I contemplate my grabber and wonder if there’s a way in.

 

*

“As I reach for a peach,

Slide a rind down behind,

The sofa in St Tropez.”

 

**

Nothing specific just being stoned in the countryside.

Vertically challenged.

There is a soundtrack that accompanies ageing, the first one you probably notice is the orgasmic yelp accompanying any sort rising from a low position, ascent rather than assent. Then there are brief bouts of tinnitus, where you stop your ears to check if it's the radio - or a mosquito - disappointingly it isn't, though in the case of the mosquito this could be a good thing. Later your joints pop, growl and crackle like breakfast cereal, small explosions accompany the mundane, the click of a wrist when picking up a cup, tennis -watching can be metronomic. Later arthritis lends its peculiar sticking agony to the mix.
So then, imagine my horror as I went upstairs accompanied by a new sound, a graunchy rattling every time I raised my right leg. The sort of noise that suggests the frayed ends of gristle going through some sort of mincer, a cthonic resonance of pending catastrophic failure, should I turn round and descend to make it easier for the ambulance crew? First things first, let's investigate.
Which leg?
Right.
Put hand in pocket, hold change and keys, raise leg.
Rocks fall distantly in a cave, possibly into a Deep, Dark pool.
Get to a flat area to reduce the distance of gravity-induced travel should the worst happen. WHAT'S THE WORST? I dunno knee-cap going for a meander, joints misaligning like a five year old's Meccano, detached h... SHUT UP!
Take off trousers to avoid any pocket-induced noise, raise leg.
Concorde reaches Mach1 about 15 miles away.
Unsettled, my balance shifts.
Death plays boney dice with the Devil for the souls of the damne...
Wait a minute. The heel of my shoe has worn through, it is hollow, inside there is a pebble, that rattles in a synovially-challenged way as I walk.
I laugh, and, as I sink to the bed in relief my neck creaks!

Courting trouble

Today is International Women's Day (IWD, only a v away from a contraceptive device, what irony? I was going to go on about patriarchal imposition and phallocentric  irresponsibility, but I thought better of it).
What better way to celebrate IWD than by making a lemon meringue pie?
"Wha...?" I hear you expostulate, let me explain:-

Lemon meringue pie (LMP) was one of my favourites when I was little, well, smaller, the best LMP was made by my mother's Auntie May (whose recipe I appear to have lost), and it would be this recipe that Mum would use. She detested making LMP as it takes time, patience ... and luck, and would then inevitably be declared as "Not as good as Auntie May's", so why did she bother? Because she loved me, and would selflessly grate, squeeze, shell, whip and stir to deliver the goods (and cos it was a lot nicer than Steve's favourite Queen of Puddings".

So then, I celebrate IWD with LMP to remind me of the selflessness of my mother,  a woman, and to get rid of the inordinate amount of lemons I got on the market the other day.

Domestic blis(ters)

A grey-haired man is standing in the garden next to a green bin, a pair of secateurs is grasped in his tanned, muscular hand, and with them he is calmly shredding the shrubbery that he has so far removed into 4" (10cm) lengths, so as not to fill the green bin too quickly. Occasionally a look of concern will eclipse his ruggedly masculine features as he contemplates whether it is the shrubbery that is actually holding the fence up.
The unnatural February sun is warm on his hands as they ply the secateurs, the rueful smile that plays across his lips as he encounters a particularly reluctant twig is prompted by the knowledge that the arthritis in his hands is going to play merry hell, unnatural sun or no. Smaller twigs he leaves on the ground as a boon to nesting birds (expect new posting soon, called "Bloody Birds").
Soon it will be time to go in and press his tofu, but for the moment he passes an hour in sylvan slicing, while trying to incorporate "O tempura, o mores" into something about Japanese health professionals. Later he will discover that "o mores" has nothing to do with death and will therefore give up the idea.

God's in his heaven ...

Yesterday, I decided to go on a hunt for yet more bluebells; bluebells, those merry harbingers of Spring, though actually the native bluebell is a bit more dispirited than its Iberian cousin, that's one of the ways you tell them apart - Spanish, perky - English, droopy (there's some sort of metaphor here).
Anyway, it was lunchtime, or in retirement parlance, just after breakfast, so the forest was deserted apart from me and about twenty deer, as I pedalled along in the sunshine the coconutty smell of gorse wafted over me, causing great angst. Why? Let me pontificate.
Surely in colonial or maritime circles the coconut was discovered by said settlers or shipmen familiar with the smell of gorse, so why isn't it the  gorsey smell of the coconut?
Over the past three days the oak had produced new leaf, so that the bare trees of Thursday were now covered in brilliant lime green (Goddamit, there's another one, surely it should be new oak green) foliage. Thus buoyed by the sun, the trees, the turning wheel of the seasons, and the azure undergrowth, I continued on my way, only stopping to berate some children intent on making a foray off-piste, irrevocably damaging my droopy blue friends. Yes, I was happy!

Naughty Doris takes the cake.

Here in the UK storm Doris is battering away at my home and castle, more specifically she's destroying my fence, aided by the neighbours sodden peat hanging baskets, now removed. U had finished the painting, though I'll have to do another coat tomorrow (hence Facebookers, I'm not making a cake - as promised), and went out to survey the blusteriness, it was then I noticed my poor fence swaying like a Dad at a disco. "Hmm?" I thunk "That's gonna go." I apologise for my contractions - I was distraught. Reaching over the fence I removed said baskets, but the damage had been done. "Hmm? How can I stop the fencepost breaking and the fencing taking off like a murderous sort of kite, visions of Gordon Kaye in 1987?"

The answer popped into my noggin (rather like the fencepost and Gordon Kaye in 1987) - rope. Somewhere I have shockcord, somewhere I have 5mm rope! I searched, thoroughly and after 10 minutes obscenely, eventually I unearthed (see pic) my SRT gear and two luggage straps, whereon I dispatched myself to the garden and tied the fencepost to the cherry tree. At the moment both are holding, but so's Doris.

 Wish me (and the tree) luck.

 

Magpie Mind.

Each morning as I traipse down the hill to the station I see magpies. Sometimes two (joy), sometimes three (a letter), sometimes four (something better), but more often then not - one! By this point some of you will be shouting, "Three's a girl, four's a boy!", I will merely point out that they certainly weren't until ITV set up Magpie as a rival to Blue Peter, filling all teenage boys with a new appreciation of older women, as Susan Stranks, one of the co-presenters was forty, FORTY!


Anyway, what to do about "one for sorrow", I of course, spit, salute and say "Good Morning Mr Magpie" but then have to decide what that sorrow could be, to prevent it being anything worse. I used to go for , "There'll be no copies of the Metro at the station." but have lately decided that, "There will be copies of the Metro at the station." may be more apposite. Sometimes I delay the train, and sometimes (when I'm late) I make the train arrive on time. Fridays  prove to be a real dilemma, they are treat days, when I have a Danish with my morning coffee, there are always Danishes, there is always coffee, so now I go for, "There'll be too much icing on the Danish.", and do you know, sometimes there is!

Hanging out.

I had been bought a pair of underpants, trendy underpants compared to my Primark briefs, these came as snug shorts with a wide waistband, the sort of waistband that is supposed to be emblazoned with a designer name so that people can marvel at the stupidity of spending that much on a pair of shreddies. Mine are emblazoned with "LETS GO COMMANDO", I won't comment on the lack of apostrophe, I'm assuming it's nothing to do with renting, even though that draws up a whole new raft of puns, so lets go contextual.
To "Go Commando" means to go without underwear, so now we have a conundrum, do the manufacturers wish us not to wear their product, in which case what shall we do with them, is it perhaps a singnifier to a potential or existing partner, or is it a comment on the quality of the nethergarment, (you might as well go commando as wear these)?
Who knows, anyway they're nice on a frosty morning, though one of the seams is going so the waistband may become a self-fulfilling prophecy!
Now I'm looking for a post where I can get the phrase, "as scary as forgetting that you'd had a lot of beetroot the day before" in, before I forget it.

And another thing about being 60

When you're fifty, SAGA (Social Activities for the Golden Age) send you a birthday card and invite you to partake in the lifestyle determined by them for the more genteel years, and buy their insurance. Though (see my last bletherings) with sixty being the new forty I expect that a delightful tour of the Amish communities has metamorphosed into a trip to Vegas hosted by Hunter S.

When you're sixty the NHS (National Health Service) write to you and ask you to participate in the Bowel Cancer Screening Programme, then a week later they send you a different sort of card, and instructions, fortunately not illustrated, and an envelope lined with waterproof foil, rather like those ones that were used to transport floppies (no comment), only in this case a deliquescent floppy.

So to sum up, at fifty you're invited to participate in a cruise, and at sixty you're invited to participate in a game of poo sticks.

Time passes.

As I stared at the huge front moving in from the Southwest I was struck by a thought, so turning from the mirror, I sat on the bed and contemplated my socks, they were like me, a trifle faded, slightly threadbare, but otherwise serviceable. On Christmas Eve I had become sixty...."Sixty - it's the new forty!" said my friends (the majority on the wrong side of fifty five), so what does this mean? It possibly means a mid-life crisis extending for another twenty years sauced with an existential/thanatophobic crisis due to the certain knowledge that the end of existence is coming a step closer (especially if you buy that motorbike), i.e. it's all downhill from here.
However, this vertiginous career to the grave/furnace is now tempered with inappropriate mid-life anxieties: should one start, not, or stop, looking at girls. How old is "too old" for a floral shirt, or have you passed the point where anyone cares how you look? Slippers - retro, anathema, essential? Flirt, Charmer or Dirty Old Man? This was all proving too much - I put my shoes on.

A right knees-out

A man is sitting on a bicycle, his grey hair should be being riffled by the breeze of his passing, it isn’t, for several reasons:- 

1.   It is contained in a helmet, though this still offers scope for riffling through the ventilation holes, in the past this has led to spectacular hairstyles reminiscent of a balding sea-urchin. 

2.    It, the hair, is plastered to his skull by sweat, later more sweat will take up the encrusted salt, exit from the helmet and deposit its briny load, excruciatingly, in his eyes. This may prove a useful excuse for crying. 

3.  There is no breeze of his passage, he is overtaken by snails, tortoises, ancient glass windows, in fact overtaken by everything that defines: “slow”. The only things that are not slow are:

1.     His breathing rate.

2.     His heart rate.

                                              

What thoughts are going through the noggin of this inverted speed-merchant? At the moment it is, “Oh a yellow golf ball!” For Nick, yes it is he, has just noticed one below his left pedal as he grinds up Haldon Hill. Already his gaze has drifted from the prize, the top, to the mundane, how to get there. How to get there without dying, how to get there without having your lower limbs independently fly off at a tangent due to the explosive pressure produced by synovial boiling.

A couple of months previously his pal Carol has suggested that he might like to do the Devon Classic  a “bike ride”, he has opted for the 55 mile stage and has trained by doing a 40 miler, two weeks before in rural Hertfordshire, which, until now, he thought had hills. Thus he is woefully under-trained, under-fit, and, if this hill doesn’t stop, soon to be underground. He thinks that he will ask his fellow bikers if anyone else noticed the golf ball, a paradigm for Haldon Hill fitness, sadly he never catches up with any, apart from Paul, who waits for him at the top of every hill. He sees an older woman, who walks up every hill but never catches her, and so he descends into a Sisyphucian gloom, believing he is scorned for his lack of lycra and his panniers with 1.5 litres of water.

Eventually the Fit Bloke what rides at the back hoves into view, makes fun of his panniers – see – and then delivers a series of cycling homilies designed to make the fat boy feel better about himself. It makes the fat boy grit his teeth (only for a short time, gritted teeth impairing the ingress of oxygen) and mutter darkly (also only for a short time, passim).

Several bouts of hours, hills, power bars (power bars MY ARSE!) and unshed tears later, there is a whispered conference between Paul and the Fit Bloke. Nick is, of course, aware of this conference, the rush of blood through his head has not rendered him deaf quite yet, it is not Niagara, more Hardraw Force. He knows that they are talking about shame, swallowing bitter black bile, ignominy. Does this spur him to new heights, it does, he fumbles another power bar (MY ARSE!) out of his pocket and manages to summon the energy to tear open the wrapper.

A conference, a conference that will see him agree to suffer defeat, and be picked up from the feeding station at Castle Drogo, but first he has to get there, it is quite a long steep walk. There he finds his fellow defeatists, bids farewell to Paul and Fit Bloke, and lies around feeling sick for an hour watching the hundred and ten milers whizz past, while he waits for a lift back to the start, his bike will follow later.

The Devon Classic, was generally agreed to be “Brutal”, this is deemed by Nick to be a small fillip to a generally humiliating day.

The next day he goes home, the cycle to the Station down the Exe is generally, and surprisingly all right, the trip over Waterloo Bridge is surprisingly not, for, you see, there is a rise as the span tends to its zenith, if he wanted he could chat to the tourists keeping pace with him, he does not want.

Let that be a lesson to you!

It had been a party at my cousin Buggins', I had, by attempting to be the life and soul, perhaps engendered by the looming juggernaut of my sexagenary, possibly over-quaffed, and was now reaping the painful reward that was my hangover. I had slumped into the lap of my beloved, who's cool hand I had to keep placing on my ice-picked brow in order to devote time for my consciousness to quell the rising pit of bile in my stomach. My second cousin once-removed Louise looked at my sorry state, with some agitation she grabbed boyfriend Dave's elbow, and with her other hand indicated my recumbent, injured body.

"See Dave! That's why we have to drink as much as possible now!"

See the Young still have the potential to learn much from their Elders.

ET

I got down to the bottom of the road this morning and thought, "Bugger, where's my phone*."

Then my internal monologue (I still have one, though these days it often becomes an external monologue, causing passers-by to cross the street and guaranteeing a free seat next to me on the train) moved to, "Will I need it?", I realise that for some of you this question is anathema, for me it isn't. I continued, "Hmm, I am going out with Dean tonight, and my darling may decide to phone me before I get home, so I'd better go and get it."

I returned to the front door and then checked the bedroom - nope. Downstairs to check the sofa - nope. Ho hum, phone up from the landline - success! Well I could hear it ringing - somewhere. I started up the stairs back to the bedroom, the sound faded, I went into the living room, the sound faded. Hmmm? I went into the front garden, the recycling warbled at me! There in the glass basket was a dew-bespattered, very cold phone, I transferred it back to my shirt pocket from whence it had decamped silently the previous evening. Memories of France stir uncomfortably in my noggin (see here for details).


* You have no idea the wrestling (or even wresting) I've had to go through to drop the require apostrophe from 'phone, I still sometimes struggle with the concept of bus, rather than 'bus, let alone fridge and flu, both of which should be gloriously sandwiched between two of the erroneously ubiquitous little buggers.

The Truth (with grout)

I had finally bitten the bullet, and had started to tile the kitchen splashback, the first bit had gone relatively well, apart from the plug sockets being in the wrong place and skewiff, now it was time to grout. I had spent a long time trawling the net looking for advice. Eventually I plumped for the ultimate handyman, he gave good advice and had a penchant for doing work slightly out of shot, or, in the case of grouting, working on a piece the same colour as the grout so that you couldn't distinguish anything. This degree of..., I won't say ineptitude as this would be completely unfair, especially compared to my degree of ept, ... of lack of forethought, appealed to me, it was something I could identify with.

I made up the grout to some sort of consistency, and then began to apply it, on the video it goes on like whipped cream on a sponge cake, mine went on like damp sand onto a small child, in fact the splashback looked exactly like that, and a child who had been digging the beach at Weston-Super-Mare no less. We used to holiday at Weston, at the Mead's farm, I can remember, gagging at the fact the milk was warm in the morning, it would be, it had just come out of a cow, the conveyor lift that was used to stack the bales in the barn, and the fact that the tide used to retreat for miles leaving a beach that after you'd dug in about a foot (30cm) used to weep black, sulphide-stinking mud (probably the raw sewage outfall from Bristol), still, there were donkeys.

My grouting continued, I used my grout float, a scraper, and then my fingers to push the sand into the cracks, then I did sponging, Herculean sponging, repeat sponging, I assiduously sponged that wall until my sand-besplattered baby was discovered to be an artful selection of pied tiles. The grout provided the relief necessary to point out the tiles that weren't flat, or the odd bit where they weren't quite the same distance apart. I hate grout.

I'm now involved with removing grout dust, from everywhere.

.... but not as we know it.

For my birthday, my girlfriend (yes I have one), brought me a helium balloon emblazoned with "Birthday Boy". I've always been a fan of helium balloons, firstly for their otherworldliness i.e. the way they keep trying to quit this one by going up, away from it, and secondly for the way, when captured, they make your voice go funny.
These days, of course, balloons are made of foil, so keep their buoyancy for much longer than they used to, mine had spent the week sinking lower and lower on his tether and was now settled on the table. I decided to release him from his string to see if I could achieve what is for me - balloon nirvana, that is that he would stay where I put him, not ascending rapidly to the ceiling, nor descend sullenly to the floor like his air-filled cousins, but rather have neutral buoyancy. After a bit of excess foil-paring, I got him to float, though he still had a slight tendency ceilingwards.
This weekend my girlfriend came to visit, at three in the morning nature came calling and forced her out of bed, as she opened the bedroom door a shape loomed out of the darkness, it was Birthday Boy or BB as he came to be known, he had left the living room and had circulated through the kitchen and then up the stairs. I have to say that this is what we assumed, but his uncanny ability to appear in the least expected places did lend him a degree of the occultish self-determination, you'll have of course noticed that he is "he" not "it".  During the day he thoroughly explored the house, turning up in different rooms, occasionally leaving rooms surreptitiously so that one minute he was there, and the next - gone. At one point he came up behind me in the bathroom and gently rested against my leg as I cleaned my teeth. For this gift of company I gave him a boost by placing him in the hot air of the radiator.
Last night though, he was getting tired, no longer able to get upstairs, he sat on a step halfway down - moribund, I fear his time has come, he will, like us, be subject to the indignity of gravity, I find it quite sad, pathos abounds.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oQhvgo62l74

ROUND ROBIN

HELLO FRIENDS AND FAMILY, WASSAIL!



Well! What a year it’s been for the Virtue Family!

Firstly Poppy.

Poppy and the Twins are thriving, it was a bit cramped at first, but then we moved my father and mother out of the Granny flat, and they all fitted in just beautifully! For those of you that want to know, Phil and Doris seemed to have eventually settled right in at the Home, they always seemed pleased to see us when we can get there, and there are often tears when we leave! Of course we don’t get to see them as often as we would like, but as Margaret says they’re probably not in any condition to notice. Thank God she got them to sign the trust forms all those years ago!

Poppy had a wonderful time cheerleading at the Olympics, she was very popular, especially with the East European teams, and indeed she must have been, because she sometimes didn’t get back until three or four in the morning. What a dedicated little Games Maker she was! Of course while she was away this meant that Granny and Grandpa had lots of time to bond with their Grandchildren. Believe me it came as quite a wrench to hand them back to Poppy, but then term started, and back they were!

GCSE’s this summer, what a lot she’s already crammed in to her life, sometimes I’m quite envious!

Jeremy.

As most of you know, Jeremy was a little troubled last year, and had to drop out of the University of Buckingham, but he has bounced back and is expected to be out of the Priory by Christmas, Marvellous News! Bye-the-bye, if any of you want to write or send a card to Jeremy, please remember he’s now calling himself Gemmy. This may seem strange to some of you, but it’s the compromise recommended by the counsellor after Margaret felt that she couldn’t cope with Gemma, as she said, “It’s all very well to have to cope with one diva in the house [Poppy], but two is one too many!” We laughed quite a bit at that one! Ha ha! Ah well, boys will be b……….

Now, sad news. Pluto had to be put to sleep. Margaret said that with her back she couldn’t re-plant all the bulbs he would keep digging up. What an enthusiastic digger he was, dig, dig, dig like there was no tomorrow, and after last Friday, there wasn’t! Still, I’m sure the display of early spring flowers will easily dispel the guilt!

Close friends will have sensed a bit of tension in the air over that last few months, but I’m happy to report that whatever “Marital Difficulties” Margaret and I were having are now firmly behind us, who would have thought that all that tension could be eased by us taking up ……..HOBBIES! Yes, I now spend the weekend painting in my studio (AKA the shed!) and Margaret spends her time entertaining a veritable cornucopia of potential clients for her lingerie franchise, in fact, quite shockingly I sometimes find her swanning about the house in a state of , dare I say it, deshabille , but then I realise that she’s just modelling some of her frillies for a franchisee.

Well, I think that’s our news, so:

Merry Christmas and a Prosperous New Year

Alan Virtue and Family

I believe I can fly - just.

It had been a bit of a weekend, what with a drive-in on Saturday night, and a mystery tour of Bucks on the Sunday thanks to TomTom and Billy Conolly (at one point Billy exhorted us to turn down a bridleway). Monday was work, and on Tuesday I went flying, not the "I tripped over the cat" sort of flying, and not in an aeroplane. For Christmas my brother had bought me four minutes of pain and terror in a vertical wind-tunnel AKA Indoor Skydiving.
OK so "pain and terror" is a bit over the mark, I arrived the designated hour before my flight and then sat for the designated fifteen minutes before anyone else showed up. We then trooped in for the training video where we had 3 minutes of instruction including the panoply of hand signals the instructor (Tim) would thrust in our faces (legs bent, legs straight, chin up [physically not emotionally] and relax), and our only hand signal; get me out of here. Then we had twelve minutes of unashamed advertising. Tim came back in flashed a few hand-signals at us for practice, got a pretty girl to demonstrate the position on a table, and then took us out to put on an oversuit, helmet and goggles.
We all trooped to the wind tunnel to view the group in front of us being manhandled into position and caroming off the side walls. All too soon it was our go:

I stepped through the door and then fell face-forward onto.....nothing! Well I say nothing, what I mean is a column of air whizzing past me at over a hundred miles per hour. Tim, pushed and pulled me until I was in nothing like the position demonstrated by the pretty girl, my back felt like it was about to pop but I was airborne. As we were a small group it was suggested we did tricks, so I decided to do a sedate spin, well I span, hardly sedate, the side wall and I became firm friends, several times. Tim grabbed me and shoved me out of the door, I had two goes (lucky me), so sat and waited for my heart rate to drop before I put it up again. This time I did a stately tour of the upper regions of the windows before (for an extra fiver) Tim took me on a visit to the upper stratosphere to check out the baffle pattern on the ceiling. We had been told to smile, not smiling we were told was a bad thing as your cheeks got pushed into a sort of balcony around your nose which wasn't too attractive ("But soft, what light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Nick's nose is the sun"). My pictures reveal that I wasn't smiling (when I can pull a still off the dvd, I'll post it), sadly the amount of, shall we say, spare tissue I have on my face didn't just give me a balcony, more of a sort of loggia I'd have said. I did smile on occasion, when I did, saliva was ripped out of my mouth, to ascend baffleward at 130MPH after a brief excursion round various bits of my face, I decided that hayfever season was probably not the time to do this sort of exercise.

 Afterwards I cycled home, mainly down the canal, now everything hurts!