Evening celebratory

OUR big 35^th wedding anniversary has passed off in quiet pleasure and great contentment.

The meal at Ricky’s Cantonese restaurant is excellent as usual: after our starters of prawn balls and crab and sweet corn soup, we both opt for the pork and duck Cantonese style – a specialty of the house.

To the clack of chop sticks all you can hear is the umm-ing noises of enjoyment and appreciation from both of us.

Back at home the champagne is nicely chilling away for us in the fridge.

To the sounds of Andy Williams – the king of easy listening (although his rendition of Schubert’s Ave Maria is one of the most moving I’ve ever heard) – we toast our great good fortune in getting hitched all those years ago.

At one point I ask My Good Lady if she regrets not having gone to the Great Barrier Reef, as we’d half planned for this occasion (our coral wedding, you understand!).

Her answer is a definite “No!”

The downturn in our financial circumstances due to the credit crunch and the uncertainty of MGL’s disability benefits due to the renewal of her DLA would have made the trip impossible at this time.

Anyhow, thanks to Ricky, thanks to Mr Williams, thanks to Mr (Piper) Heidsieck’s bubbly we’ve had a very agreeable evening indeed.

Long may they continue!

A ringing in the head

THE RINGING in my ears is back again with a vengeance, after a couple of days’ respite.

And so bad is it, I’m actually feeling dizzy; I drag my way around our supermarket shop today with the world spinning around me.

I’m to do us a prawn curry for dinner this evening, but I have to own up that I’m not in a fit state.

My Good Lady and I decide to go along to our village local for dinner and this proves to be a bit of a disaster.

We order the plaice fillets with boiled new potatoes and a salad.

After a 45 minute wait the dinner arrives, with the fish badly overcooked and the lemon butter sauce too sharp by half.

All very disappointing because usually, the food here is good.

To cheer ourselves up, I open the bottle of wine we’ve been chilling for the dinner we didn’t have at home, and to some cool sounds of a Fifties compilation CD, we enjoy our tipple of Argentinean Torrontes – a rather intriguing grape variety.

If only the ringing in my head would stop!

Light bulbs, fry-ups and plans

WHY IS IT that, when light bulbs blow, they go two or even three at a time?

Anyhow, after a rummage in the shed, I discover I have no replacements.

Oh yes, lots of others – I generally buy them by the half dozen – but no 60 watt ES energy saving bulbs, the second to go this week.

So, we’ve got a few things to do today: the public library for renewal of My Good Lady’s parking badges, then to the dentist for our bi-annual check-up, then to pick up PD and to take him along to the Pub for an hour or so, and last but not least, stop off at our branch of Focus to pick up said bulbs.

Back home, I do this evening’s dinner, a stir fry, an old favourite: a sauté of par-boiled, cubed potatoes, cooked gammon finely chopped, sliced onions and diced peppers, all done in my trusty wok. I serve this with a couple of poached eggs and some baked beans.

A basic fry-up in other words, and very tasty it turns out to be.

Evening. We open a bottle of New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc and to the sound of the divine Ella doing her Rodgers and Hart Songbook we discuss our immediate and near future plans.

With MGL’s successful award of her disability benefit, we are free to make such plans, but oddly, neither of us have much appetite for travel. With our excellent stay in the south of France last May, and our long warm summer spell in which we dined outdoors so often, we really don’t feel much need for another holiday.

Maybe a short drive over to Harrogate to visit some old chums, and yes maybe we’ll book a table for Christmas Day lunch to save us the hassle of cooking. But that aside, we’re happy just to stay at home and watch my tomatoes ripen.

Even for our thirty-fifth wedding anniversary this Monday the most we’re thinking of doing is dining our favourite Cantonese restaurant (and okay, yes, maybe we’ll open nice a bottle of bubbly when we get home).

Oh dear, what sad little lives we do lead!

Experimental cook day

IT’S MY experimental cook day, and I’m having a bash at a venison in beer casserole.

I’m a little nervous because I know that game of any sort can end up a little tough and dry if overcooked – the meat tends to a degree of fatless solidity unusual in more common cuts.

I also dig up another grow bag of my new spuds – a better harvest this time, the extra couple weeks having done wonders for their growth.

I begin by browning off the meat in a mix of oil and butter; then I add the finely diced onion, the liqueur – ale and chicken stock – a good dash of seasoning, a little brown sugar, pinch of allspice, a couple of bay leaves and some cloves, and then I let the mixture gently plop away for an hour or so.

The potatoes I just serve boiled – new spuds only really need a knob of butter on them.

And though I do say so myself, the end result is pretty scummy, with the venison being just about spot on.

The only kitchen accident is in opening the wine – the neck of the bottle cracks under the waiter’s friend, and I end up with a bloody finger.

Doesn’t stop us enjoying the contents, though.

Carers

THE CARERS’ course on Friday raises a couple of interesting points.

“When did you first start thinking of yourself as a carer?” the Facilitator asks.

Now at first I think this a rather silly question – after all, carers don’t stop being husbands and wives, sons and daughters to the people they care for. It’s just an extension of what they already do.

But the more I think about, the more I begin to see that it isn’t such silly a question; the carer’s role is something a bit different from that of a loving spouse or family member.

A carer subsumes his or her interests to that of the demands of the caree – his or her needs inevitably take priority.

Disability, whether physical or mental, cannot just be put on hold, the demands require constant vigilance and attention, sometimes immediate action.

And I think it’s true to say that the main reason why carers don’t consider themselves “professionals” is quite simply because they’re not paid.

One of the statistics to come out of the meeting on Friday is that if carers were to be paid the going market rate, it would cost the NHS an estimated £87 billion a year.

Obviously, this isn’t going to happen!

But until carers start to take their roles a little more seriously, and acknowledge that they too have needs, they will always keep on thinking of themselves as mere family and friends.

Speaking personally, I find my caring role one of the most demanding jobs I have ever done.

I’m on call more or less 24/7; and even when I can squeeze in a little time for myself, it’s always with one ear cocked to listen out for the summons, for the demand for assistance.

And if we are talking about the “profession” of caring – how many people work without at least a couple of weeks of paid holiday?

Yet many carers don’t have a choice about this, even when a little respite is granted in the form of vouchers, or sheltered holiday accommodation, it doesn’t give respite from the feelings of guilt, of the sense of evading your responsibilities.

Now, I’m very lucky to be a carer for My Good Lady, in many ways it’s a joy and a privilege to look after her; not only is she my lady, she’s also my best friend.

Yet even here, the demands of the job can sometimes be quite taxing, but if I have a problem I know I can discuss it with her.

That was not the case with the dementia that my parents’ suffered from, or the complete physical dependence that results from diseases like motor neurone.

At least, the course has given me something to think about and if I can arrange another sitter for MGL I shall continue with it a bit longer.

(Sneaky...)

IT’S BEEN a wearisome week, this, what with the workmen knocking six bells out of the place, and the general upheaval such activity always entails.

Moreover, I’ve got it into my head that it’s been Friday for the last three days and I’ve been looking forward to the end of the week, with us, maybe, enjoying a weekend roast for Saturday.

My Good Lady disabuses me of this idea – it seems she has no roast of any sort planned for us.

Somehow the weekend is never quite the same without a nice roast chicken or a tasty bit of salt marsh lamb.

I admit I bear my disappointment with a certain amount of ill-grace – what use are Saturdays, after all, if not for a succulent roast dinner with a hearty bottle of red wine?

(I’m being sneaky here, you see; I’m hoping MGL will read this and change her mind!)

Anyhow, on a more positive note, the work is more or less completed, and yes, I must admit I’m reasonably pleased with the job they’ve done. The new boiler will take a little time to settle in, I understand, and I hope that all the excess steam from the flue doesn’t freeze if we have another hard winter this year.

But it should cost us less to run, I’m told, and the built-on insulation on the new hot water cylinder should be a lot more efficient than the old boiler with its red jacket lagging.

Best of all, though, it’s cost us not a penny piece to have done – one of the bonuses of an environmentally friendly government and our good fortune to have found our way through the maze of grants and regulations they've imposed.

In fact, the savings we’ve made and which we are going to continue to make will easily pay for the occasional roast on a Saturday…

(More Tom Sawyer-like sneakiness, you see!)

Unavailable

A DAY OF sunshine and showers.

PD rings at one point, demanding to know if we’re playing out this afternoon, and he’s somewhat miffed to discover that no, we can’t come up to the Pub, because My Good Lady has got an appointment. Her bi-annual blood pressure check.

It turns out to be okay, but PD rather gracelessly complains that we should have made the appointment for some other time.

He’ll no doubt be even more put out when he learns that we have other appointments this week.

On Wednesday, for instance, we have workmen coming to replace our old central heating boiler with something more efficient and up-to-date. The young chap who came to inspect the thing last week exclaimed that our boiler was older than he was!

On Friday I’ve got a carer’s meeting which I’d like to go to if I can arrange for someone to come and sit with MGL for the afternoon.

Meanwhile, too, the tree man comes along to inspect a couple of trees that have rampantly overgrown their place in the back garden. We’ll need to stay at home for that, too!

It seems for a while we may be unavailable to keep our friend company – much, I know, to his disconcertion.

Swimming with sharks

IT HAS BEEN a worrying business, watching My Good Lady slowly recovering from the mauling she received by the so-called “doctor” at the medical review for the DLA.

But recovering she slowly is, I’m pleased to see – with something of her normal openness and warmth beginning to re-emerge.

But there’s no two ways about it, applying for benefits is a bit like getting into the water with sharks.

The medical exams are almost universally dreaded.

Unless you have an obvious and easily diagnosed disability – something like Parkinson’s or motor neurone – you are treated with a degree of sneering scepticism that borders on abuse.

The questions that they ask ignore any context in which any meaningful answers can be made.

They like all the answers to be either yes or no, all the boxes neatly ticked.

The actual physical examination is so perfunctory as to be virtually unrevealing even to an expert, let alone to a common-or-garden benefits agency medic.

Hardly a surprise, then, that MGL came away feeling that nothing she had tried to say had been taken into account – we were both trembling, she with despair, me with futile anger.

We are both slowly recovering – although we’re still dreading what the result of this “medical” will be.

Preparation

WE’RE TRYING to get ourselves mentally prepared for My Good Lady’s benefits medical on Wednesday.

The trouble is the medical services don’t always play fair with disabled people.

Nothing novel in this, of course, but with the new government demanding cuts, cuts, cuts – we’re dreading the worst.

We’ve had to fight, in the past, for MGL’s rights as a disabled person, once to the point of taking it up to the Lord Chancellor’s office.

And yes, we’ve won every single time, but it really is a hard slog, especially to one who is already in considerable physical discomfort and in a certain state of mental vulnerability.

Nothing for it, though, we just have to turn up at the appointed hour and hope for the best.