Ann celebrates a special birthday.

Happy 70th birthday

Yesterday was Ann's seventieth birthday - significant in years, and worthy of celebration; also noted to be the hottest 13th June since records began. Edwin, alas, was working all day in London, but Mary-Anne and the two girls came round unexpectedly and we shared a cake and broke open a bottle of Prosecco. Because of her heart problem, Ann has not been drinking lately, but did let slip she would like a Prosecco to toast the day, so I slipped out just after seven o'clock to walk the dogs and buy a bottle. I finally got to the counter of the Co-op with the bottle in my hand, but the girl took it from me and said, "we aren't allowed to sell alcohol until eight o'clock!" so I went back into the park for a second dog walk, grabbed a cup of coffee from the platform cafe, and waited. Finally, at two minutes past eight, I could take another bottle through the checkout.

To say I am good at speeches is to say a rubber duck is good for going out to sea. The best I could offer was how much Ann meant to each of us and long we had all known her, "Especially you, Mary-Anne," I added without thought. "Yes," she said, "all of my life, actually." I had intended to cook a meal, and even went on to Tesco to buy the ingredients but for some reason, Ann chose to prefer a meal out so we settled on Carluccio's, but they turned us away as they no longer serve food after seven p.m. but at least Byron's Burger Bar opposite was open, and their veggie burgers were delicious. We could even take a desert there - but coffee was too much, as they don't serve hot drinks. No wonder everything in Bury is shutting down. But overall, it was a very good day.

Today was less happy. Our guinea pig, Bartok (all our animals are named after poets or scientists, or heroes from opera), has been wilting in the heat for a few days. Yesterday, he lay down all day not eating or drinking, and Ann put ice bags in his cage to cool him, but to no avail. I looked for him in his hidey-hole this morning but he had died in the night. Byron loved that guinea pig, spending each day running round the cage or even nudging it if he was hiding. When we brought in fresh grass, Byron would run ahead to tell Bartok in some way, and he, Bartok, would start an excited squeaking before I even came back in through the door, so I had to shut them into the room while I carried the cage out and emptied it. The ground was too hard for me to dig easily, so later I took him in the car to a country field, and hid him in dense undergrowth to return to nature as I muttered a few words of remembrance over him. 

Then we had to go yet again to Addenbrookes for Ann's cardiograph. She should have had her cardioversion this afternoon, but got a letter to say it was postponed because the doctors were on strike; and sure enough, there they all were outside the hospital waving their banners. "Oh look," I joked, "there's your cardiologist. Perhaps we should drop you off here for your next consultation." We feel sympathy for their low pay and work conditions, but at times like this it does impact on the health of real people and very real suffering, as Ann gets so tired and breathless now.

My mother

My mother has grey halr,

A small, button called a nose,

Her skirts are long, flouncy,

Always wearing cardigans pink and grey,

She wears gold hoops in her ears,

And pearl necklaces, sometimes real,

Sometimes not.

She wears black, leather shoes and patent,

Her hair is short, and sometimes curly,

Sometimes not.

She wears a smile,

Unless tired,

Then her forehead, like a writhing sea,

Grows into a mountain,

And her lips, the opposite, grow down.

She is patient, mostly,

And tall, elegant, rarefied,

She loves life,

It does not always love her,

She has a kind, non-apathetic nature,

And sometimes that's a fault.

People can take advantage of such a nature,

And, like the threshing machines thrash it,

Take her nature and abuse it,

Still, she is my mother and as my mother she is loved.

Edwin Marr