A week of ceremony and sadness

Andre takes the Oath of Allegiance

 This week we were invited to Bury-St-Edmunds registrar office to witness Andre take the oath of allegiance to the Crown and make a pledge of loyalty to the United Kingdom. Andre had booked a private ceremony so a group of us could attend, including several of his Brazillian friends; if it had been a group event, there are so many present each person can only bring one guest.

The ceremony followed six years of living and working in Britain, completing his "Life in the UK" test, demonstrating English language proficiency, and being considered "of good character". This is all more than most of us can achieve; I certainly couldn't answer many questions from the "Life in the UK" test - such as "When is St David's Day?"; "What percentage of the UK population lives in Northern Ireland - 1, 3, 5 or 7 per cent?"

But Andre did answer them, and has excellent English skills, while his knowledge of our history is much greater than mine. It was a moving ceremony, much more subtle than I had been led to expect, with a little history of Suffolk and British values, and the joys of living in Suffolk. The ceremony welcomed him into the community and celebrated his commitment to upholding British values. We adjourned afterwards to the Angel Hotel, where we had booked a long table and an early meal.

On Thursday, keeping a promise to my sister-im-law, we were in Coventry to meet up and remember Richard. It was a difficult meeting, for Richard's presence is in every room. Even the birds outside reminded us that he would have identified them, while we struggled to think what they were. On the wall, their anniversary clock had stopped, with sharp silence in our pauses, whereas Richard never allowed it to wind down, with a comforting tick and chime to fill the background to conversation.

We met Peter for a meal at Da Vinci's, surely one of the best restaurants for service, cuisine and wonderful cooking, beating many Michelin-starred restaurants for my money.

The smell of leaked fuel oil still permeates the house, even with the kitchen closed off and the windows open. I wrote an email of complaint, and they sent another engineer to deal with it, this time carrying an ozone generator, which he assured us would react with the bad fumes and cleanse the air. On the downside, we had to seal off the kitchen and vacate the house, so we decamped to Edwin and Andre's for the morning. They kindly took us for a mid-morning brunch, then left me to read as Andre took the dogs for a five-mile walk, and Edwin walked Annie to town along the river path and through Abbey Gardens. The smell is certainly reduced, so hopefully will dissipate completely before much longer.

A pungently difficult week

We had one highlight at the start of the week: attending the Apex theatre to hear the Cathedral Bach choir present Bach's St Mark's Passion. A piece I had not heard before, although referencing it once in the play I wrote about Bach's life. I hold to this beautiful music to remind me that we must not despair even under the blackest sky. For it has not been an easy week. 

On Wednesday, I had follow-up telephone calls from the oncologists and radiotherapists at Addenbrooke's to ask how I was getting on. I told them of my immeasurable tiredness: or immeasurable at least in terms of hard numbers but easily counted in the hours I seem to spend slumped in the chair, a blanket about my knees and pillows to my back. Both teams commented that "this is completely normal after intense radiotherapy", and reassured that it will improve in a few weeks. To recuperate in idleness would not be difficult of itself, though I am having to watch Annie undertake more and more of the 'little jobs' I would normally do in my stride - walking the dog, bringing the bins in, even a bit of the cooking or going out for a meal occasionally to ease the burden of housework. Now I squat like a dead lump, useless and of little value. 

Andre has been granted his citizenship papers, and has arranged for the ceremony next week, where he must swear allegiance to the King. We are invited along to support him, and look forward to witnessing a unique ceremony. Although even here I have let Annie down, for I had offered to take her to choose a new dress but have felt too tired and worn to even get dressed, let alone drive to the Freeport shopping centre.

To crown a bad week, we had the boiler serviced on Wednesday. For some reason, the serviceman decided to fit a new hose and had to bleed the system. He warned that it might smell for an hour or two, but at six p.m. the smell was increasing and permeating the house, and I noted oil seeping from beneath the boiler. Taking the front off revealed a deep puddle of oil in the drip tray beneath the new pipe which was clearly continuing to leak down the side of the boiler and pool beneath it. We got the emergency plumber out who, in fairness, did arrive quickly and retighten the joints. He did his best to mop up the spill, but there must be a puddle remaining beneath the boiler, for even with windows open and the extractor fan full on, the nauseating smell permeates the whole house. Each day since I wake in the night with the taste of diesel oil in my nose, on my tongue, my throat, my lungs and in my stomach. It must have also seeped through to my brain, leaving me dizzy and disorientated, although that may just be me anyway at the present time.

The boilerman came back with a spray he claimed would neutralise the smell, but it doesn't.  Annie and I are now trapped in a world where we cannot imagine what clean, fresh air must be like. I shall never again take for granted the beauty of a simple atmosphere without diesel.