A Christmas dream

TO BE honest, I don’t really consider myself an adherent of the Christian faith. There are as many things about Christianity I loath as I admire.

I suppose I agree with Nietzsche’s comment that Christianity lends itself to corruption as much as to joy and Godliness.

But if I’m not of the faith, I am, of necessity, of the tradition; I was brought up a Christian, indeed a Catholic, and especially at this time of year I’m surrounded by the symbols of that two thousand year old tradition.

Okay, I admit, it’s a stretch from the gifts of the Magi to the crass commercialism that we all endure today and of which we are all, willy-nilly, victims.

I do admire some of the music which the tradition has inspired, both classical and popular.

And in the latter category, I would like to mention one of my favourite secular carols which I was pleased to hear again on Sandie Dunleavy’s radio show in BBC Radio York.

Christmas Dream was written by Andrew Lloyd-Webber and Tim Rice for the otherwise rather forgettable 1974 film, The Odessa File.

Why I like this particular song is because of the lyrics which talk of “the crying, the shouting, the dying” – unusual to say the least of it.

The sentiment that “All nights should be silent, they should all slow down” is one that I heartily subscribe to.

Above all, the chorus:

The whole world needs a Christmas dream

We need it to warm us,

To calm us, to love us…

is surely at the very centre of the Christian tradition.

And in that tradition, in that spirit may I offer to one and to all a warm, calm and loving Christmas.

My Christmas dream indeed.

Cold feet

I’VE BEEN somewhat remiss about my postings of late – no real excuse for it except a kind of lethargy which has been upon me for weeks now.

I seem to spend more time asleep than fully conscious.

We’ve been dogged by a certain amount of ill health, too – again, nothing major, just the usual seasonal coughs and colds and the like.

But it just adds to my winter moroseness.

Oh, what I wouldn’t do for a few weeks in the sun! I tell My Good Lady so this very evening as we recall the glory that is the Caribbean, or the wonder of South East Asia.

Not for us at the moment, alas. Maybe later next year. We shall see.

Anyhow, the Big Day is nigh upon us and we’re about as set for it as we’re likely to be.

Little or no cooking involved for us this year, we’ve been invited by some friends for Christmas lunch – and I have to say even this has been something of a trial.

PD, our host, has certain mental health problems, and in the space of the last few weeks has been getting himself more and more worked up about our now immanent arrival.

At first he was really keen, but now I fear he may be in the edge of some kind of breakdown on our account.

Were it not for the fact that Lin, his wife, is really enthusiastic about our coming to their home, I think I might have tried to extricate us from their invitation.

Far too late now, of course – we’re committed.

But I approach the day with a certain feeling that the old feet are getting well and truly icy!

Of seasonal wine and rather a lot of turkey

AND STILL in the spirit of the fast-upcoming festive season, we’ve just taken delivery of some Christmas wines.

Quite a good selection this year – albeit an expensive one – ranging from a Châteauneuf-du-Pape to go with the roast turkey, to a premier cru Chablis to go – well, anytime really.

Also included is a bottle of Champagne with which to welcome in the New Year.

I always feel a little more celebratory when our Christmas case arrives, and the promise of all that delicious supping!

Meanwhile I turn my attention to today’s dinner – turkey, by coincidence – in the form of a creamy stew with mushrooms and mustard and a good dollop of dry white wine.

I misread the recipe, though, and by accident I make a sufficient quantity for 4 to 6 people.

And because there’s cream in it, I can’t freeze it. So, what to do?

There’s far too much for 2 people, and it’s too late to ring round and invite some guests.

I end up serving half the portion and the rest I put in the fridge and keep fingers crossed that it doesn’t go off before we can get round to consuming it.

Actually, it rather good with My Good Lady’s only criticism being that the coarsely chopped meat could have been cooked for a little longer.

She clears her plate, though.

Sausage day

IT’S MY big cook day, and I’m doing us old-fashioned curried beef sausages.

And, as usual when attempting something new, I’m a little nervous.

The fact is I’ve never even tasted beef sausages before, let alone used them in slow-cooked curry sauce.

They turn out to be pretty good; less fiery than the more normal pork verities, they nevertheless go well with the warmth of the curry.

All washed down with a very agreeable Australian Durif-Shiraz wine.

Excellent.

Christmas plans and pea soup

I CANNOT believe that the run up to Christmas has already begun.

But yes, we’ve already booked the table for our group festive dinner at the Pub, and our plans for the Big Day are firmly laid.

We’re dining at the home of some friends this year, as a change to eating out which, to be honest, has got a bit tedious.

We’re looking forward to a good, homemade Christmas dinner – a roast turkey with all the trimmings… Promises to be good, especially since PD and his wife Lin always go to the trouble of getting a premium quality bird from Marks and Spencer’s.

Meanwhile, I’m busily soaking some split peas, ready for my pea and ham soup done in the slow cooker tomorrow.

I really do enjoy using our “Big Ears” – the aromas as it plops away, hour after hour, fill the whole house.

I have to admit to a certain apprehension about this soup, though. My mother used to do it to perfection when I was a lad, and the recipe I’m following is definitely not the same as hers.

For example, with mine, everything goes into the pot at the same time; my mother used to boil the ham first, then use the stock to make the soup.

The ingredients are a little different, too.

I guess I shall just have to keep my fingers crossed.

Cruising down the river...

I AM lying in my fold-down bunk of a bed, with the ship gently rocking to and fro in the wake of a passing barge, and with the sound of water outside our cabin window sighing gently.

All very soothing and restful.

The little cabin is warm and rather muggy, and a kind of delicious, heavy languor is upon me. My eyes just keep closing of their own accord.

My Good Lady, I know, is safely ensconced up on the sundeck with her puzzle book and her novel, while I attempt to catch up on a couple of very broken nights of sleep in a post-lunch snooze.

It’s still only about the third day of our holiday but already the pattern of shipboard life has established itself.

An early breakfast – thanks to the alarm clock that is Wi-Fi set to ring at seven-thirty every morning, heaven only knows why – maybe the most consistently good meal of the day.

Then, depending on day’s itinerary, we either set out for a morning’s sightseeing, or more likely, settle ourselves to down to watch the Rhineland scenery floating by.

Lunch is at 12 o’clock sharp and consists of soup, a small main course or a salad, and a dessert.

The afternoon now stretches ahead; My Good Lady and I often take a bit of zizz at this time, although, too, we sometimes disembark and have a potter round one of the ports we’ve come into: Remagen, Koblenz, Rüdesheim…

At 1900 hours dinner is announced and we brace ourselves for another assault on our stomachs – the food on this cruise is definitely sub-par to what we might have expected – and our table dining companions, Ray and Margaret, are as bemused as we are as to what is presented to us.

Evening in the salon is something of an ordeal, too, with a deafening performance of the man at the musical synthesiser, sometimes accompanied by a strangulated, ill-pronounced song, booming at us through giant loud speakers. No place for a quiet conversation, this, and now, as darkness has fallen, it’s a little too chilly to sit out on deck.

So we endure it for as long as we can, although it is mitigated by the conviviality of another couple we have met, Esther and Bernie. Bernie, indeed, has a sense of humour that rises above even this musical torture.

And so to bed.

But it is a good holiday break, despite the shortcomings of the food and the entertainment, and one to which we should not be too loath to do again. River cruising has some definite advantages over the ocean variety. So, maybe next year, who knows, a sail down the Mekong River perhaps, or a trip along the Amazon?

Sleepless and on the eve..

MY EARLY night is as sleepless as I expected.

We’re off on our German travels in the morning, so naturally I thought a good night’s sleep would be just the thing…

But I find myself wide-eyed and awake, lying rather restlessly in bed, and trying not to disturb My Good Lady, snoring softly beside me.

Oh, to sleep as a baby! I find as I grow older sleep is something of a luxury – if, on the odd night, I can sleep without disturbance, I count it a blessing, a boon.

The Hindu scriptures describe death as a “deep, dreamless sleep” – and oh dear, how I sometimes long for that! At least for a night or two.

Anyhow, we’re packed again and ready for the off; the taxi is coming for us at 9-ish in the morning, and by this time tomorrow we should be aboard the M.S. Alegria, and floating up the Rhine…

Everybody tells me it should be a fantastic trip – I hope they are right.

Sorry if I sound a bit grumpy – to be honest I’m a little nervous, what, with my lack of sleep and the difficulty I’m still having with my leg.

No doubt it’ll be fine.

See you when we get back!

Until then, auf Wiedersehen.

Autumn holiday plans

SEPTEMBER has come in with a roar!

Torrential downpours, window-rattling winds and creeping cold are all conspiring to give us the autumn blues.

And guess what, we’re off on our holidays in a couple of weeks’ time – a Rhine cruise in northern Germany, maybe the one area of Europe that’s even colder and wetter than England!

I’m certainly planning to pack some thick woollies to take with me.

It’s given us something to look forward to, though – both My Good Lady and I have been feeling the need for a change of scene.

Our normal holiday destination – France – is a little out of reach at the moment because I don’t want to risk a long drive; my leg is still giving me some trouble.

The idea of a river cruise seems just the thing.

And for once, too, we’re splashing out on a taxi to get us to and from Manchester airport rather than driving down and staying over, although it would have been nice to meet up with family and friends perhaps…

Anyhow, incongruous as it seems, we’re getting ourselves ready for the off.

I’m just keeping my fingers crossed for a late Indian summer!

A small regret

PEOPLE who know me well will tell you that I have a great love of musical theatre and film.

I mention this because I’m listening (again) to the BBC’s radio tribute to Kander and Ebb’s amazing work (Friday Night is Music Night, Radio 2 and online).

Sometimes I regret my decision not to move to London after I graduated – I would really have enjoyed the whole West End theatre scene.

Our visit last year to see Les Misérables is a case in point – what a joy that was!

Unfortunately, it was a bit of an epic journey for us, what with My Good Lady’s disability and, now, my recent stroke makes it, for the moment, almost impossible for us to get down.

There’s also the small matter of the not inconsiderable costs involved.

Still, I can enjoy CDs of soundtracks and DVDs of movies, as well as the wonderful musical output that the BBC provides almost daily.

So yes, it is one of my small regrets, not being a bit closer to the Big Smoke, it is in reality a very small one.

Discomfiture

A SENSE of unreality pervades me as I drive back from our Friday gathering in the Geriatrics’ Corner of the Pub.

I know my car control is a little erratic – but then other people’s seems no less so.

And the unreality extends to meal time, too; I’ve prepared us a Moroccan spiced tomato and chicken casserole, and I’ve just got the boiled rice to do.

It’s not until My Good Lady asks me if I’m not making the accompanying

Gremolata that I realise I’d completely forgotten about it.

Unreal!

Quite what is causing this state is a bit of a mystery. Oh yes, I find the Pub today too noisy for my hearing. My tinnitus is playing up badly, and with PD yelling, as it seems, at the top of his voice across the Corner while I try to talk with Fran and Den and Henry, it makes it almost impossible for me to follow what’s going on.

My leg is giving me difficulty, today too, and for some reason my back is aching.

All in all, I’m feeling a bit of old crock!

On the positive side, my chicken dish is quite amusing, even without the Gremolata condiment, and the Romanian Merlot, Cab Sauv., Shiraz wine proves to be quite enjoyable, too.

Best of all, today, My Good Lady seems to be in much better spirits than of late, with her “black dog” experience finally in abeyance.

I know, I ought to count my blessings instead of wallowing in my own discomfiture.

Sunday pies

THERE is something comforting and very English about a good old pie.

I’m very fond of them – especially on a Sunday, when, after the housework, we succumb to an easy-cook, shop-bought, frozen pie.

I just pop it into the oven – a rather nice chicken pie today, although we’re just as partial to a well-made steak and kidney, or even something fishy.

I insist, though, that our choices are well-made, not just those cheap, weak and watery things you can sometimes get at “bargain” prices.

If I could, I’d make my own pies and freeze them, ready for Sunday use, but unfortunately I don’t do pastry – I don’t have the hands for it.

My Good Lady has – cold hands – and she does excellent pastry, and sometime I do prevail on her to rustle us up some tasty Cornish pasties, or a succulent chicken and vegetable pastry.

For some reason, for me, the art of pastry-making doesn’t really appeal, so I shall continue to stock the freezer up with good-quality shop-bought treats to enjoy on our quick-cook Sundays.

Revisiting Lawrence

I’M JUST reading some of D. H. Lawrence’s shorter fiction, a fat volume of which has sat on our bookshelves for nearly twenty years.

I’m familiar, of course, with some of Lawrence’s novels – indeed, I had to study Sons and Lovers for my A-Levels.

I’m also acquainted with a handful of his short stories, with Fanny and Annie being, in my view, in the top ten of the finest stories ever written in the English language and one that I personally found deeply influential on my own writing.

This is not to say that I’m an unadulterated fan of Lawrence’s work – at times he irritates me as much as he fills me with admiration.

But I suppose, on the whole, the latter emotion is uppermost in me as I read his dissection of German militarism in The Prussian Officer, or the conflict between love and class consciousness in Daughters of the Vicar.

But what has prompted this interest in a long-dead writer and poet? I’m certainly not planning to sit any more exams in English lit, while my literary aspirations have dried up in recent years.

No, maybe it’s because we visited Vence last year, the town in the south of France where Lawrence died.

Or maybe it’s simply because this big book of stories has sat there so long unread and if I’m ever going to revisit Lawrence's work, it’s time I did it.

Either way, it should keep me out of trouble for a while.

Getting acquainted with Big Ears

SO FAR all the recipes I’ve attempted on my slow cooker, Big Ears, have been fairly basic ones – the ones that accompanied the cooker itself.

I suppose their purpose is to familiarise me with the cooker’s uses.

The simple beef stew I made, for example, was to acquaint me with the browning/sealing function of the cooker, as much as anything else.

Then the chicken and white wine casserole demonstrated the need to cook poultry for the shortest time.

Today, I did the simplest dish of all – a boiled ham, a gammon joint cooked in water on low for ten hours.

And oh yes, it was beautifully tender – if fact, it fell apart as I was trying to lift it out of cooking pan.

And yes, it was very tasty, although I think cooking the ham in cider might have made it bit richer.

The trouble is, though, I don’t really feel these recipes are exactly stretching my culinary abilities.

We do have a couple of slow cook books with recipes aplenty, but My Good Lady is insisting that I continue with the included dishes, so that I become fully conversant with all of Big Ears’ little quirks.

Looking ahead, though, I see some more interesting ideas coming up: a Bolognese sauce for example, a Sausage Pot, a Thai beef curry…

There are some dessert ideas, too – but neither MGL nor I are really pudding people, so I might just skip these.

Adventures in cooking

SOME SMALL health concerns on my part don’t preclude me from attempting an experimental cook yesterday.

I do us spicy prawns with chorizo – it’s intended to be a tapas type dish, but I put some sautéed Jersey Royal potatoes with it to turn it into a main course.

It’s simplicity itself to do.

Thinly slice a clove of garlic, deseed and chop a red chilli, finely dice a goodly length  of chorizo sausage, then chuck them all into some pre-heated olive oil and fry them up for a couple of minutes.

Then toss in a good handful of cooked, peeled prawns – I use the frozen ones, already thawed – and a splash of red wine.

Another three or four minutes of pan frying is all it takes: and you have one of the most delicious ways of serving prawns that I have yet encountered.

Absolutely gorgeous – we have to eat them slowly to prolong the pleasure.

A crusty bread roll mops up the delicious juices.

I’m intending to cook again tomorrow – this time using “big ears”, my slow cooker – so-called because of the large handles on either side of the pot.

It’s a full four-hour job, this – chicken breasts cooked in white wine and stock with cream and mushrooms.

Should be interesting.

Weekend celebratory

THE HOTEL is one of these modern, characterless places designed for economy and for the attentions of commercial travellers.

The whole chain of such establishments have identical rooms in size and layout, so that no matter in which one you stay, you feel as of you’re in a home away from seedy home.

The bed proves to be reasonably comfortable at least - and that’s about the most positive thing I can say about the room.

The bathroom is lit by what seems like a twenty watt light bulb, and it casts more of a pallid gloom than a light!

Never mind, we tell ourselves, it’s only for three nights!

We’re visiting Stoke-on-Trent to help celebrate My Good Lady’s cousin’s golden wedding anniversary, and a couple of birthdays to boot.

It proves to be a great weekend for food and for general conviviality.

I enjoy one of the best steak and kidney pies I have ever tasted at a cosy country inn in the company of three of MGL’s cousins and their husbands.

We indulge in another splendid spread of food at a party the following evening where we also toast the happy couple whose fiftieth anniversary this is.

Yes, a very pleasant weekend, then - satisfying, if, for me, a little tiring – it is the longest journey I’ve done since my stroke and it proves to be rather taxing.

Never mind. Even the dismalness of the hotel doesn’t spoil the pleasure of this family do.

Foody contest

WE’RE SITTING in the Geriatrics’ Corner of the Pub when conversation turns to the subject of the Great British Menu (BBC 2) – the competition for professional chefs for an opportunity to cook at the prestigious People’s Banquet.

Now, naturally enough, we’re all rooting for the North West finalist, Lisa Allen – if for no other reason than because Lisa began her career at this very pub kitchen, and has been guest chef here a couple of times.

Memorably, we went to one of her “special” evenings here, and very good it was too – not surprisingly she is now working at a Michelin-stared restaurant down Blackburn way.

Anyhow, we are all impressed, indeed amazed, by the lengths to which some of the chefs go to to wow the judges – from antique copper fish kettles to bales of hay on which the judges are expected to sit.

One chap brought a charcoal barbeque into the kitchen to give some of his pork that extra bite – and filled the whole kitchen with smoke and ash!

Another chef dished up his dessert in a bouquet of flowers and spiked it with lit sparklers in order to make the judges sit up.

It makes the beef stew I’m slow cooking today seem a bit limp; if I can find a couple of little union jack flags I might just stick them into the jacket spuds I’m serving the stew with – just for fun!

Love doves

I AM sitting at the kitchen table, looking out onto the garden.

We’ve just finished My Good Lady’s crab gratin – not an unqualified success I’m sorry to say – and we’re now supping the last of the wine.

Meanwhile, outside, a couple of collared doves are billing and cooing at one another, perched as they are on our old, rather ramshackle trellis.

A favourite spot for birds is this trellis – we sometimes have a dozen or more on it, diving at the feeders and back again.

Anyhow, as I watch, our randy pair of doves suddenly decide the big moment has come – and in a wild flutter of feathers one pounces on the other.

It’s all over in matter of seconds, almost in the blink of an eye.

And then, there they sit, clearly satiated and content – I can almost imagine them lighting up their post-exertion cigarettes!

And with a smile on my face I think to myself, “Ah, happy days”!

Review

ACCORDING to the latest medical opinion, it seems I have a 1 in 5 chance of suffering another stroke in the future – which, I’m reassured to hear, is quite low.

The new medication seems to be working as prescribed.

My blood pressure is normal; my cholesterol count is under control; none of the scans show much that’s untoward – a little clogging in the arteries of my throat, but not unduly worryingly so.

So, it seems, I’m a hoppy bunny again.

Except, of course, that I actually have had a stroke, and I’m not fully recovered from it yet.

And whether I ever shall fully recuperate is something of an unanswerable question.

But still, I come away from the review today feeling a little more optimistic about my future health prospects.

Slow cooker quandary

I’VE BEEN reviewing slow cookers with the thought of maybe purchasing one.

I rather fancy doing stews and casseroles and soups and the like, and I’m told slow cookers are just the ticket for such things.

And like everything, the more you pay, the more bells and whistles you seem to get – the problem is to decide which ones I’m genuinely likely to find useful and which not.

The variations are quite staggering, though. Price-wise, there are the cheap and cheerful types for under £20, to the so-called “professional” models costing more than £100. Feature-wise, too, I have to decide do I need a timer? Do I require rice-steamers, chicken roasters and keep-warm devices?

Suddenly, the simple idea of a slow cooker takes on head-scratching proportions.

Why, oh why, does life have to be so complicated?

A spot of Indian alchemy

SO HERE I am indulging in a spot of gastronomic alchemy again, putting together an experimental spicy prawn stir-fry.

Actually, this dish is such a quick one to do, we’re literally dining within minutes of starting it – the rice and naan bread accompaniments are the longest things to cook.

What I really love, though, is the mixing up of the various spices – turmeric, cayenne pepper, cumin, coriander all mixed up with the raw prawns. The aromas are simply marvellous and demonstrate the genius of Indian cuisine in putting together these amazing blends.

I heat up a spoonful of groundnut oil in my trusty wok, and when it’s smoking-hot, I toss in some mustard and cumin seeds and a splodge of garlic purée and cook until the seeds start popping – about 1 minute in total.

I then drop in my spiced prawns and cook them until they turn bright pink – about 2 minutes in total!

And there I am, ready to serve up. This particular combination of spices gives the meal a delightfully sour edge to the heat.

My only criticism of my effort is in the boiled rice, which I feel is a little bland; a crisp, green salad I think would have gone better with these prawns. But still, no worries, we both manage to clean our plates, and we finish off the meal with a little French Brie afterwards.

Yes, on the whole, quite nice!

Revivals

IN THE time while my stroke has rendered me somewhat hors de combat, it seems there have been changes taking place.

First, most noticeably, spring has arrived in a torrent of colour and new growth; it’s as if I’ve suddenly woken up after a very long sleep and I’m seeing the world with fresh eyes.

I had hoped to grow some more of my own vegetables this year, but my incapacity has put something of a damper on such physical exertion. Even now, although I feel much like my old self again, I’m not sure if I dare to put myself to it – I still do tire rather easily, and my leg is still a little leaden.

My interest in cooking has revived with my appetite though, and I’m back at my experimental cook sessions – today I do us a quick and delicious spaghetti alla carbonara, using up some pancetta bacon and a heap of grated parmesan cheese, all tossed in an eggy mixture. We wash it down with delightful Italian rosé wine – very nice indeed.

 I’ve even started scanning photos again, this time of our first visit to Cyprus in 2004 – and my goodness me, I’m staggered by how sunny the island looks, such a contrast to our visit this year!

So, yes, I’m pleased to report that I seem to be reviving with the springtime.

A disconcerting feeling

IT’S TAKING the needle-bruises on my arms longer to vanish than the symptoms of my stroke.

Not that the symptoms have completely gone, you understand; I still have a little deadness in my left leg, although I’m no longer dragging it around like something extraneous to me.

All tingling sensations in both arm and leg have disappeared, though, and generally I seem to have come out of the other side a bad week – of stomach upsets and loss of appetite, of searing leg cramps and the dead hand of lethargy.

Oh, I still tire easily, of course – that’s probably going to take weeks, maybe months, more to overcome – but on the whole, I have to consider myself very lucky indeed to have got off so lightly!

Anyhow, today we ignore the dreadful weather and decide to visit the Pub, the Geriatrics’ Corner, and it seems ages since we last were here. It’s the normality of the place that I can’t get over. There’s Liam, behind the bar, greeting me with a quiet smile, as always; there’s the Times puzzle pages ready for our attention, there’s Al, our gardener and handyman, on his usual stool by the wall, there’s the clock over his head ticking away – all as if nothing had happened.

And it seems that, for the Pub, its staff and most of its customers nothing has happened; they’ve barely been aware of my absence, still less of everything I’ve been through.

For a moment, it seems as if time and space have somehow been bent out of shape. Can it really be that so much can have happened to one person, while leaving everyone else untouched?

It's a disconcerting feeling, I can tell you!

Stroke

I’M SITTING on the trolley-bed in the Accident & Emergency department of Lancaster hospital, awaiting the ministrations of the medics, and I’m wondering to myself if, now that I’m getting older, I can expect more of the same of this type of experience.

I suppose it’s inevitable, really.

It begins last night. I am viewing the late movie on the box, when suddenly my foot begins to tingle with what I take to be pins and needles. It quickly spreads to the rest of my leg – a kind of tingling numbness – from foot to upper leg.

I try to walk it off, but already it’s clear this is something very different.

I wonder weather to wake My Good Lady, but decide against it – no sense in disturbing her for what I hope might still be nothing. Maybe by tomorrow it might be back to normal…

In fact it isn’t, it's worse. The tingling feeling has actually spread to my left hand. I can prevaricate no longer. I get up and as gently as I can I tell MGL that I think I’ve suffered a stroke.

She immediately rings NHS Direct, and they soon dispatch a paramedic unit to check me over.

They aren’t absolutely sure, but they think I should be taken to the A&E unit of the hospital, to be more thoroughly examined.

It’s the beginning of a very long day, of being hooked up to monitors and of being generally scanned and probed and x-rayed, with long, long spells of tedium in between during which nothing seems to be happening.

Finally, finally! – the result that I’ve now steeled myself to expect: it is indeed a stroke, albeit a mini one, and with some luck, the symptoms might clear up completely. On the other hand, maybe not. We’ll have to wait and see.

After spending nearly nine hours in the place – with only a sandwich and a belated cup of tea by way of refreshment – my discharge paper is drawn up and I’m allowed to go home.

I have to go back on Monday for further scans, and the boring part is that I’m not allowed to drive for twenty-eight days in case I have a sudden further attack – a common occurrence, it seems.

A friend comes and collects us and takes us home, and also provides us with some homemade vegetable soup and a piece of shepherd’s pie – both of which we devour as if we hadn’t eaten for a week!

LATER: I’m please to note that already some of the numbness has begun to fade and that I’m no longer walking about like lame duck. Here’s hoping for the best, fingers crossed!

Relief, at last

WELL, IT’S all over bar the shouting. The bathroom, I mean.

And, lord, what job it’s been! I thought having a new kitchen installed was going to be an upheaval, but that was as nothing compared to the bathroom!

The floor alone took four days to lay, and the ceiling had to be done twice.

But when the fitter finally departed, there was our gleaming new shower-room, ready for the use of…

The OT even came today, and prescribed a perching stool for My Good Lady – we duly went off this afternoon and collected it.

She can now look forward to her first shower – and I can affirm that it is like a semi-religious experience!

There are just the Venetian blinds to be fitted at the window, and of course the small matter of payment…

But it’s done! Complete! Finished!

Oh, the sheer overwhelming relief that that thought brings…

Cyprus wine

WE TAKE in a delivery of wine today, to stock up on our sadly depleted cellar – actually, the garage.

They are quite a hotch potch of different styles and grape varieties, from the fruity excitement of the New World to the sophistication of the Rhône Valley.

But the one thing we don’t have is anything from Cyprus – which seems a rather odd omission when you think how much is coming in from Eastern Europe these days.

Yet for centuries, Cyprus wines were famous; while as for their sherry - my parents always had a Christmas bottle of Emva Cream on the sideboard…

During our holiday there, My Good Lady and I visited the Cyprus Museum of Wine, just outside Limossol, to learn (and to sample) something of the island’s wines.

The main red grape, we discovered, is Mavro, producing a surprisingly light, softly tannic and fruity red, while the white grape, Xinisetri, makes for a rather lovely and refreshing white, quite a change from the ubiquitous Chardonnays and Sauvignon blancs that you find almost everywhere.

I must say we developed a bit of a taste for Xinisteri.

The third wine we tasted was the sweet red, Commandaria – a bottle of which we brought back from the duty free shop at Paphos airport. It makes for a delightful aperitif or as an after-dinner tot to go with the coffee.

Cyprus wines seem to have fallen into disfavour in recent years and I think this is rather a pity – they really are something a little different.

Not sorry

IT’S BEEN ONE of our odder holidays.

For nearly a week, Cyprus was hit by some of the worst weather in living memory – with snow flurries in Larnaca and Paphos, with torrential downpours that turned major roads into fast flowing rivers, and with bitingly cold gales that howled around us continually.

So, our holiday consisted of eating a lot and sleeping a lot. And maybe that’s just what we needed.

We did get out some of the time, trying to dodge the worst of the weather; I even managed to get some sunburn when I fell asleep in a chair on one of brighter days.

But still, overall, I’d have to say that, as holidays go, this one was mixed.

Maybe the most exciting day was when we drove over the snowy Troodos Mountains to Cedar Valley and the famous Kykkos monastery, then around, under the shoulder of Mount Olympos, to the mining village of Kaminaria and to see the Venetian bridges at Treis Elies – altogether a journey of well over a hundred kilometres, much of it over winding, mountain roads.

Quite an exhilarating experience!

But still, we’re not sorry to be home…