Happy birthday to me?

FOR ME, the day begins with an earthquake – and goes downhill from there!

Not a major earthquake – a mere 3 point something on the whatsits scale – but still enough to wake me from a late and heavy sleep.

When I do finally drag myself into wakefulness I realise it’s my birthday and my heart sinks: the two days of the year I dread most are birthdays and Christmases – something always goes wrong on them.

First thing I learn is that My Good Lady has not only burnt a finger in preparing a chicken pie for my birthday dinner, she’s also taken a nasty tumble in the yard. Nothing broken, thankfully, but she’ll have bruises galore for days to come.

Next, it seems, we’re to wait at home for PD to visit – some official form he needs to fill in and with which he needs some help.

So we wait. And wait. And wait.

All day we wait. Finally, at teatime, I ring PD and ask if we’re still to expect the pleasure of his company. “I thought you’d be coming to the Pub,” he says, “I’ve been waiting for you there!”

We turn our attention to dinner. MGL’s hand is too badly hurt for her to continue with the cooking, so I take over. I pop the chicken pie back in the oven and prepare the veg to go with it. Unfortunately, something goes wrong with the pie – it’s so badly dried out its virtually glued to the pan: it has to be chipped out, bit by bit, and served up in lumps. Luckily I’ve made some gravy, so it’s not a complete disaster – just about par for the day.

This evening, I’m moving the recycling boxes out for tomorrow’s collection when I meet a neighbour, a lady who recently lost her husband. I ask after her – and she bursts into tears!

For the next hour or so, we ply her with wine and give her a sympathetic ear and by the time she leaves she seems a little calmer.

So far it’s being a peach of a day!

MGL’s aches are really coming to the fore, now: her side, her chest, her knee, her hand – all of her, pretty well, is blueing up painfully. “Isn’t it time we had a bit of a celebrate today?” she pleads. So, I nip across to the garage and dig out a bottle of champagne, and finally, finally, we experience something really good, a moment of sanity in an otherwise Escher-esque day.

"Emenies"

IT'S A little sad, really.

We're out at our newly reinstated last-Monday-of-the-month dinner, we're all set to have a nice evening with friends, we've had a good day - but it all goes pear-shaped when one of our number turns up the worse for drink.

Now, don't get me wrong, I've nothing against people enjoying a drink or three.

Indeed - and please don't be shocked by this confession - I've been known to imbibe a little of the vino myself.

I'm not being in any way virtuous about this, nor moralistic nor anything of that sort when I say that some people should try to curb their drinking.

It's just that some can't hold their alcohol, they get drunk all too easily, they become loud, they slur their words, they talk about "emenies" instead of "enemies", they become maudlin, and above all, they become a bore.

There's no talking to a drunk; there's no getting anything like sensible conversation from one.

The result is, I feel I want to run away from them; I get no pleasure from their company nor seeing them in such a state.

As soon as I reasonably can, I settle our tab and we say our goodbyes, a little brusquely, perhaps, but I simply cannot listen to any more of this alcohol-fuelled babbling.

So, we end up coming home rather earlier than expected...

Like I said, a little sad, really.

Culture shock

THE WORD along the street is that the new Mrs B, our next door neighbour, has left home and gone to China.

And I, for one, don’t blame her.

Seems that living in England is too much of a culture shock for her.

She is Chinese, of course, and only recently arrived over here, brought back by her new husband, an engineer who works in the Far East and who is away for months at a time.

He brought her here, and then left her to it: a young woman who speaks precious little English and who finds our customs and traditions completely alien.

For example, the house she lives in here could house five or six families back home, and not just two people. In China, families often live in one room houses – they cook, eat and sleep all in that room. Whole families, too – children, parents, grand-parents, even great grand-parents. (She is deeply shocked by how we treat our old people – putting them in homes and such like.)

She has found English weather just a bit too cold for her, too, especially since she believes in keeping windows open, front and back – the front to allow good spirits to enter and the back to let the bad ones depart. She regarded the gas fires in the house with deepest suspicions: such things are not known back home, it seems.

Anyhow, being left alone after just five weeks here, was too much, she’s packed her bags and returned to a more civilised country.

And like I said, I, for one, don’t blame her.

A spark in the ashes?

AT LEAST, whilst we’ve had some dry weather, I’ve managed to power-wash part of the yard.

And just as I’m contemplating getting the garden furniture out of storage, the forecast is turning into something less settled.

Still, the garden does need a good drink of rain.

Anyhow, I’m pleased it’s the weekend again – for on Saturday we have the leisure to do a roast, a chicken today from our favourite butcher, and Sunday is a general catch-up day for the household chores.

Meanwhile, I’ve been toying with the idea of maybe trying to write a short story for this year’s Bridport literary competition.

I get an entry form from them every year – I suppose because I won a prize there once, about ten thousand years ago.

Mostly I put the form on my desk and forget about it until after the closing date; for some reason, this year, it caught me just as I was looking at one of my old, unfinished efforts, and I half wonder if I should have a bash at pulling something together.

Thing is, about this writing lark, I’ve long since lost the need, or the hunger I used to have. I don’t even really need the money these days.

Maybe there is still a bit of an itch there, though, a tiny spark amongst the ashes of my literary ambition.

And, to be honest, I’m not sure whether to try to fan it into life or stamp it out altogether.

Do I really want to go back to all that effort and disappointment?

Not sure. Probably not. But I’m not sure.

Visiting

THE HOSPITAL car park is full, of course, as are the surrounding streets - full to overflowing because of the road works they're doing around the place.

I drop My Good Lady off at the main entrance with her wheelchair and go off in search of a space.

The old Victorian hospital is a grim-looking place, both outside and within. They've tried to spruce it up of course, but no amount of public money can disguise the feeling you get that you're entering a cramped and forbidding institution.

I always shudder a little whenever I have to come here.

Mike isn't having too good a day it seems - they've just had to have the emergency crash cart out to the him: he's unable to breath properly because of the amount of phlegm on his chest. He's on antibiotics but they're having little effect because of his motor neurone. It's as if he's slowly choking on his own mucus. They are hoping to clear out his system in a day or two, but of course there's nothing to stop it from building up again.

The desperately sad part is that Mike remains mentally alert and aware that he's now wholly paralysed from the neck down. He can't so much as raise his hand to attract a nurse's attention, and because of the oxygen mask he's obliged to wear, he cannot call for help, either.

Still, we're hoping that the antibiotics might kick in soon and that he'll be well enough to go home - where his wife, Helen, can give him the full-time attention and care that he really needs.

And in the meantime, we'll continue visiting when we can to keep our friend's spirits up and to remind him that he's not forgotten by the gang in the Geriatrics' Corner of the Pub.

The up side

IT'S BEEN a long week, this, long and rather taxing.

Most evenings I haven't felt up to posting any blogs, indeed I haven't felt up to writing any.

Workmen have been coming and going, all week as it seems, while the long shadow of a friend's death hangs over us like a pall.

Still, I must try to look on the up side of things. Except for a bit of decoration and some new flooring, the kitchen is done. We're slowly getting accustomed to finding things in drawers and cupboards, and even the new toys are beginning to seem a little less intimidating - i.e. the microwave and the dishwasher.

Meanwhile, the spring sunshine is bringing out the new growth in the garden and even I'm beginning to feel the stir of longing to be out and doing.

As for Dave's passing, I'm reminded of Wordsworth's lines:

"Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower,
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind"

I think it's a sentiment Dave would have approved of.

Tuesday things

FIRST THING, after breakfast, we're down to the supermarket to purchase some essentials that we're running low on.

We're not alone it seems; the shop is heaving!

It's as if, during a bank holiday, people have been entertaining the ravaging hungry hoards and are now desperate to lay in provisions for the next onslought.

We return home to a phone message - our friend, Mike, has been rushed into hospital with breathing problems. We were due to go and visit him and Helen tomorrow, now we have to await further developments.

I get my head down for an afternoon zizz, and later we're on the phone to scare up some workmen to try and get the last of the kitchen finished. They faithfully promise to come... sometime.

We turn our attention to dinner.

While My Good Lady attends to the salmon, I focus on the wok and the vegetables and noodles stir-frying away.

Unfortunately, the small oven has a habit of unexpectedly switching itself off, and now, at the end of its twenty minutes we find the fish is stone cold! On it goes again, this time with both of us keeping our eagle eyes on the timer.

It turns out okay in the end, in spite of our super duper new cooker!

Evening. We watch a recorded episode of Numb3rs, before giving Helen a call about news of Mike. We can only leave a message on her answering machine, though; clearly she must be with family or friends. We can only wait and hope and pray.

Despite the rather sombre mood that's settled on us, we open a bottle of Viognier, and to some cheery tunes by Doris Day, we manage to end the evening in a more positive frame of mind.

Slow Sunday

EVERYTHING seems to go onto hold during the long bank holiday weekends.

My Good Lady and I tend to batten down the hatches during these times, and go out as little as possible.

We take a deep breath and wait for the world to get itself back to normal.

Easter or no, we still go through our usual domestic Sunday chores – the bed changing, the dusting and vacuuming and so on.

And as usual, I do us a quick dinner this evening: it’s actually a salmon and broccoli bake served with some jacket potatoes. Very good it is, too. Unfortunately, I serve it with an over-oaked Chardonnay – not so good.

Evening. We watch Come Dine with Me (C4), a programme that irritates and fascinates me in roughly equal measure.

A little later, after I tuck MGL into bed, I watch a bit of the Abba evening they’re running on Five. Never a great fan of the Swedish supergroup I’m afraid – somehow I could never get past their glam rock fashions! Still, looking back, I suppose they did make a pleasant enough noise – they certainly knew how to please their fans.

I doze off on the sofa during part of Abba the Movie – and wake up again with a start to the end credits and “Thank You for the Music”.

So, on the whole, a slow day, a slow weekend.

Birthday dos

FOR My Good Lady's birthday tomorrow, I plan to cook her dinner.

We're meeting up with some of our friends in the Geriatrics' Corner first of course - several of them have already rung up to ascertain that we will indeed be there, so it should be a lively session.

Mind you, there was a time when these birthday dos started to become rather expensive.

It began with PD buying a bowl of chips one year, just as a bit of treat.

It quickly escalated into great platters of sandwiches and quiche and all sorts of other goodies - and the daft part was, I don't think any of us really enjoyed this food; the birthday boy or girl felt obligated to provide it because everybody else did.

Anyhow, when it started to get out of hand, by common agreement, we knocked it on the head: now we just settle for a round of drinks.

Back at home, then, I plan tomorrow to combine some experimental cookery with whipping up a birthday treat for MGL: at her request, I'm doing us a salmon and rice casserole - a real oldie this recipe, dating from the days when we were first married, thirty-odd years ago.

Maybe a spot of wine to go with it - we've just had a delivery of some interesting-looking German wines...

Should be good.

Still waiting

WE SEEM to be permanently waiting for workmen, and a tiresome business it is, too.

We can't really move on with the kitchen until the electrician has fitted the new lights, and the joiner has put the finishing touches to the units.

Meanwhile, we're having fun with all our new appliances.

The old dishwasher had three programs on it, the new one has fifty-two!

We've just about mastered the main oven, but the microwave is still a mystery to us; My Good Lady is planning on doing us some jacket potatoes in it in a day or two, and it promises to be quite an adventure.

All the while, too, we're wandering around the room like a pair of nomads and trying to remember where we put this jar or that bottle and feeling that the place is not yet quite ours, won't be until the job's complete.

So, we wait, and wait...

Sunday things

IT'S A bit of a pain, trying to vacuum up the carpet tile fragments that are littering our kitchen floor at the moment.

We've put them back temporarily until we sort out some decent flooring for the room; at least they're better than clumping around on wooden boards.

But they are a pain to vacuum. The cleaner tries to suck the tile up along with all the grime that's on it.

Lordy, I'll be glad when this kitchen is done!

This evening we watch some interesting music programmes on BBC4: the first is an old Omnibus interview between André Previn and Oscar Peterson, both great jazz pianists. When they played together something quite magical happened!

The second programme was about the remarkable career of Previn himself - jazzman, arranger for the likes of Lerner and Loewe, now legendary conductor of the LSO, not to mention the butt of some classic jokes from Morecambe and Wise. Hence the title: All the Right Notes.

On the whole, a very entertaining evening.

Picking the day up

BIT OF a mishmash of a day, with a lot of hanging around waiting for workmen.

We manage to sneak out at lunchtime to the local farmers' market, and get some provisions for today's and tomorrow's dinners.

Apart from that it really is a bit of a drudge of a day.

The electrician does finally turn up and fastens the switch that's been dangling by its wires for a week or so to the wall.

He also checks the wiring and pronounces it healthy - even though it has a tendency to fuse whenever we switch on the oven and the extractor at the same time.

"It's just a little sensitive," he tells us. "It'll settle down."

We hope he's right.

He also agrees to return next week and hang our new kitchen lights.

We finally manage to escape to our local for an hour before dinner - just to get away from the stress of hours of waiting.

For dinner, I do us a risotto with mushrooms and peppers and a miscellany of other veg. We have it with the excellent Lancashire burgers we bought at the market.

Not too bad at all.

My Good Lady is feeling a bit down in the dumps after the strain of the day, not to mention the tensions of the week as we try to pull our lives back to some kind of normality.

So, to cheer her up, I crack open a celebratory bottle of champagne - and after all, we do have much to be grateful for.

I put on a CD - Charles Trenet, a chipper chappie of a French crooner, and to his cheery chansons we sip our fizz - a rather splendid Perrier-Jouet with a rich, biscuity finish.

Picks up the evening a treat, does that.

Hoarders

MY GOOD LADY and I are hoarders.

It was a habit inculcated in us during our childhoods by parents who believed that nothing should ever be discarded, just in case...

We were both brought up to unwrap Christmas presents carefully, so that the paper could be reused and the string balled up and kept for another time.

Cardboard boxes were tucked away into the backs of cupboards, miscellaneous bits of mismatching china was laid aside in drawers and dressers.

I suppose if you lived through years of war and shortages it was a hard routine to get out of - and for MGL and I, it still is.

We are getting a bit better at throwing things out, but now, of course, the recycling ethic justifies us in keeping our clutter: we can hoard now to save the planet.

As good an excuse as any, I suppose.