A reminder of mortality

Whom do I approach for a full refund? Who insures the craft we are gifted? To whom may I complain when the chassis fails, or a wheel comes rolling past on an open country road? Perhaps there was no life-time guarantee, for all are doomed to fail. Hitherto, I could ignore my own failing body. I heard the oncologist tell me this myeloma had now metastasised to multiple secondaries in the lung and liver. She is an intelligent, knowledgeable woman in whom I trusted and believed, yet I lived as though nothing had changed. True, I have slowed down, grown weaker, less able to walk far or up gentle slopes, but there was nothing to see or feel. I am not coughing up nasty phlegm or turning bright yellow, and have been pain-free and sleeping well. 

But now I am sent a reminder of mortality, for there is pain. It is mid-thigh: a dull, constant ache that occasionally screams to make its presence known - sharp, determined to be noticed, sufficient to stop anything else I am doing or violently wake me with a jerking jolt in the ungodly hours of night's darkness. The pain has not yet been blessed with an official name, but when I phoned the oncology team at Addenbrooke's their simple advice was to phone St Nicolas Hospice. Sometimes a simple tone of voice is sufficient to convey a thought, for the hospice nurse sounded sadly rueful saying she would conduct a home visit next week, despite my protestations that I am still mobile. There is much to be said for private funding: contrasted with the overworked NHS, the staff answered the phone swiftly and clearly have time for a home visit, even from Bury St Edmunds.  My 80th birthday binge yielded over £500 towards the hospice fund, so my thanks to all who contributed so much towards keeping the hospice running.

Helena Bonham Carter

Friday found Ann and me sat before a potter's wheel. Never had I imagined doing this, but a Christmas gift from Edwin and Andre was a voucher for a two-hour lesson for two people. The teacher has only been doing pottery herself for two years, having taken it up in lockdown rather as I took up painting, but she has turned it into a commercial success, running a well-positioned, attractive studio close to the centre of Bury. As well as selling her pots in the shop, she runs several classes each week and is well booked up until Easter. Six of us huddled ambitiously over our wheels, dreaming of attractive plates or cups we might fashion. Well, never have Ann or I been in such a mess. Clay seemed to be flying everywhere, covering my jersey and jeans despite the apron she provided, and ending in Ann's hair. At the end of two hours, Ann had a decent looking chalice, but my best efforts wouldn't rise as I wanted, so mine looks more like a misshapen dog bowl, for a very small dog. Our efforts are to be fired in the kiln, which is very brave of her as she threatened they could explode if we didn't do it right, and mine was folded and refolded so many times I'm sure it must have water or air bubbles trapped inside. I will stick to my painting, which I enjoy and generally produces vaguely recognisable results.