Kent Characters

Joyce at 90

Continuing the theme of Kent Characters, we visited Ann's cousin Joyce in Deal yesterday. She is 90, but fit enough to talk for England, and still walks to the supermarkets for food and to the pub for a drink. She has smoked all her life, and knows all the spots outside pubs and hotels where she can still puff. She defends this by relating friends she's known who were told they must stop and were dead within a few weeks. She is thin and fully mobile, and fitter and less breathless than me. She reminds me less of a Dickensian character than of one of Alan Bennett's Talking Heads but with a London accent, for she never ceases talking about her relatives, other residents, the people she meets in the shops, or her past, in a jumbled montage of reminiscences, laced with advice and humour that has us constantly laughing. I would need a tape recorder to transcribe it, and can see how Dickens had a clear advantage in recording his lives by using the shorthand he'd learnt as a journalist.

Joyce has paid for her funeral, and made all the arrangements, because she doesn't want her children squabbling over who chose what hymn or reading. She has already asked them to choose what they want from her estate, and written it down so they can't start bickering over her possessions when  she's gone. She married at 18 and has been widowed for two years. Only now does she know freedom, and is the happiest she has been.

Today was my consultation with the oncologist at the Macmillan Unit in West Suffolk. This waiting room is so different from urology, with its rows of old men with bladder and prostate problems. Here are rows of younger people, half women, many with head coverings – hats, knitted caps, bandannas, scarves – or wigs of various colours and lengths. To one side sat a younger man, a prisoner handcuffed between two guards from Highpoint top security prison, awaiting transport back to the cells. A good proportion of the chemo population are children with leukaemia, though there were none in this room; probably they have a time slot separate from the adults.

Dr Martin carefully explained the pros and cons of chemo, reading out an arm's length of side effects. My face grew longer as the list grew. Ann and Edwin could hardly stop giggling as they watched me. One side effect would be thinning of the hair. Though young, Dr Martin had a gaunt face and very sparse hair, making me wonder if he too had had chemotherapy. Then he added, the treatment would run right through Christmas, and I'd have to be admitted to hospital immediately if I ran a temperature. Even if I finished the complete course the pros were just a tiny improvement in my overall chances. As I always get a chest infection each winter I declined it.

In the cafe afterwards, a foreign lady in the queue asked what soup it was. "Soup’s all gone," said the woman behind the counter. "Oh, soupsalgone- that’s my favourite!" said the woman. We left quietly for the sane little world of Hundon.

Bleak House II

The day continued with the weird sayings of Lee of Bleak House. He continues to rush round without a pause, taking orders for breakfast as quickly as possible, but he has no working memory, and without a written memo he kept forgetting and mixing up everyone's orders, coming back half a dozen times to remind himself of what we wanted, then bringing the wrong food in. One lady said we should just order everything, and leave what we don't want. Another guest said she didn't like to see food wasted, but the first said, with so many wrong orders, it was all being wasted anyway. Another man said he was going to buy Lee a notebook, but thought he'd forget to use it or lose it.

Yesterday, I'd said to Ann how fantastic Dickens' must have been to imagine such a vast range of iconic characters. The rest of us just write our own dull stories to greater or lesser acclaim, but he generated his stories from the wild world of his fantasy, and that made him unique. But today, I realised why he loved Kent. This county is filled with weird characters that make Lee seem tame.

The Tartar Frigate has a landlady who shouts loudly at her visitors: "Sit down! What do you want! We don't have it!" But when she brings the plates, she talks softly to them as she sets them down, "There, my beauty, you sit here," and strokes them lovingly. The hotel owner is as crooked as Bill Sykes.  He runs a jewellers in which he passed off imitation costume jewellery as solid gold, but was discovered when it turned a customer's fingers green. He sold a fake Rolex watch to someone who'd won the lottery, and that was discovered when they went swimming and the watch leaked. He seems to have got away with these crimes, but has also been charged with more violent crimes, and was found not-guilty on a murder charge. So possibly, Dickens' had no more imagination than the rest of us. All he did was describe everyday life as he walked the streets of Kent.

Paddy Ashdown joins the Bladder Cancer Brigade

I mentioned in an earlier blog that there is a dearth of famous people with bladder cancer. Now Paddy Ashdown, the ex-leader of the Lib-Dems,  has joined the ranks of the BCB. I extend my sincere sympathies, for it is not an easy group to join, and he will have a rough path to follow. He used to have a nickname, "Paddy Pantsdown", for reasons that might be libelous to state. Now we can reprise the nickname: he will be Paddy Pantsdown anew, as I can state from experience!

Bleak House

We are staying at Bleak House in Broadstairs, after stopping via the Leather Bottle at Cobham – an ancient inn also used by Dickens, with many of his memorabilia including a strand of his hair and his chair. It features in the Pickwick Papers – but this is not a distinguishing feature, as so many pubs in England seem to share this touch of fame.

Ann outside the Leather Bottle

Bleak House was Dickens' home for many years, with rooms named after his characters.  Last time, we had Fagan, but this time we have moved upmarket with the Copperfield Bridal Suite – a glorious, large airy room with full dressing room, en-suite  bathroom with bath big enough to swim in, and a balcony overlooking the tiny harbour and the town.

On the balcony at Bleak House

Dickens' Study at Bleak House

Dickens' study – where he wrote David Copperfield, overlooking the wild North Sea and the treacherous Goodwin sands – is open to visitors, and wonderfully atmospheric, for folk who enjoy treading the nostalgic path of history. The place is run by Lee, a gaunt, wiry old man with thin round glasses and a grizzly grey beard, who sleeps in whatever room is vacant, or – as last night – the bar when the hotel is full, which he seems quite happy with. He wears a thin flowery top that makes him look as though he rushed to get up and is still in pyjamas. He appears to do everything: receptionist, porter, barman, waiter, carpark attendant, and even chef and room cleaner if other people don't turn up. One guest said, "weren't you on duty last night?" He said, "no that was my identical twin brother!"  Tonight he said, "I've only had two cigarettes today. I'll just run out to get another pack. He reminds me in appearance and manner of my brother, Peter, except that Peter would roll his own, and use his special tobacco.

Last evening, I dozed on the bed after driving down, to be woken by a shouting match. Ann had already left the room to deal with it, telling the woman her husband has cancer and was sleeping, and she did not expect staff disputes to waken the guests. This morning, the factotum came into the breakfast room with fulsome apologies, kissing Ann's hand and clasping mine, appologising for the behaviour of his manager, who had been shouting at him for some minor thing. He said he had told her before about unprofessional behaviour in the hearing of the guests. Then he brought us a first class breakfast, before having to step over his bed behind the locked bar for a pint of coke for another guest's breakfast. Kent has always been a little quirky.

The smell of the Bug of Death

I have acquired a noticeable odour, that follows me like a sick fog. I noticed it a while ago, but now Ann has commented on it as well. Ann is a great researcher, so found that there really is a pungent chemical marker in cancer – a polyamide – and dogs can be trained to detect it. I am starting to spray regularly with an aftershave, and even spray rooms I have been in, but it makes me self-conscious. When the children come round, or I go to face-to-face meetings in London, I try not to stand too closely to the others, or breath over them. I am certainly much weaker and more tired now than even a few months ago. This is the smell of death and despair, of darkness and despondency.

Logo of the British Uro-oncology Group

Next week I meet the oncologists to determine the next step in this journey, an assessment of my suitability and fitness for chemotherapy. Dr Martin is a respected oncologist, on the Executive Committee of the British Uro-oncology Group, or BUG. Their logo is like something out of a science fiction horror movie. Clearly some wit with an unsympathetic sense of humour has added legs to the cancerous bladder/prostate image – but only six legs, so it is an insect not a spider – and looks more like an infestation than a treatment option. On reflection, perhaps it is appropriate. After all, bugs are undesirable things, in people or computers, and this disease and its treatments are certainly undesirable – like the very worst of all bugs.

Is cancer odour common? Please add your experience…

Hair and care

Edwin asked us to get him a hair shampoo when we went shopping this afternoon, one for greasy hair. It is a mark of how little shopping I do that I  had never realised how many types of shampoo are on the market. The racks were solid with them – shampoos for dry hair, long hair, fine hair, delicate hair, young hair, blonde hair, even for "old hair", whatever that is. But no shampoo for greasy hair. I think the marketing people now sell it as special shampoo for full-bodied hair, or glowing hair. I was thankful that one advantage of chemotherapy might be that I won't need to worry about shampoos again; also, I am going to save a fortune if I never again need to visit a hairdressers.

On the way to Clare, we passed a car in a field. It had clearly spun off the road on a bend, hit a tree and spun at speed across the ditch and through the thin hedging. Ann said, "there's still someone in the car," so we turned back to check. Sure enough, a young but unharmed man leapt from the car to wave to us not to stop, saying he was fine and just awaiting the breakdown truck, and clearly embarrassed to be caught there.

On the way back, we stopped at The Globe, a really fine unspoiled pub with no modernising features and a wide selection of single malts. Sipping my double Dalwhinnie at a quiet table in the corner, we heard an almighty crash, and a man was lying on the floor, having fallen off his stool at the bar. A group of people rushed round him and helped him to his feet. He lost his beer, so just took a small wine and moved to sit in a proper seat near our table when he suddenly fell again, very hard on the solid tiled floor. Again, people crowded round until Ann said I was a doctor, when they all melted away and left him to Ann and me. I checked him over; he had broken nothing, but was in great pain from the fall, so we helped him to the chair.

He wasn't drunk, but told us he was under great stress because his wife has mental illness and he can't get any help. He has to do everything, and just tries to get out for a break now and then. There was no way he could drive home, so we took him back. His wife was still in night attire, telling us she'd been ill, so we led him to his armchair to sit down and recover. The incident certainly reminded me how lucky Ann and I are to have the support of each other, and put into proportion the minor inconvenience of choosing shampoos and possibly losing my own hair.

Pacifying Pilot

Ann is difficult to buy presents for. She doesn't like chocolates, or expensive jewelry, and likes to pick her own clothes. Especially with the inconsistent sizing between shops, she prefers to try on garments rather than trusting to others or the internet, then having to return them. She isn't even certain about flowers – cut flowers are like having "dead things" in the house and are better in the field – but she is gracious enough when given them, and displays them nicely in a cut-glass vase.

Yesterday was a busy day. It was Edwin's birthday, with Lucy, Matthew, MA and their families coming to see him all afternoon. Ann had a hospital  appointment in the morning for further X-rays to her hands, so we had to tidy up early. I hoovered and took out the old dead flowers, while she started to prepare the food. At the hospital, I waited in the restaurant over a cup of coffee. Back at the car, Ann said, "what's that blood on your face?" I looked in the car mirror to see two huge glowing red globs on my face, and a deep yellow stain across my cheek and in half my beard. I rubbed them off, but the stain wouldn't move - it was as though I'd dyed my beard bright yellow. We finally worked out that they had come off the flowers when I threw them out - they must have brushed my face and stained it.

Pacifying Pilot, the wild guinea pig.

The party went well, though I was still tired, and sat in my chair most of the afternoon. Lucy and Andy have a new baby, now one year old and toddling, so we shut the dogs in the bedroom so they wouldn't knock him over. Little Theo still has his dummy, and likes to play "hunt the dummy", leaving it in as many unexpected places as he can find. Today he decided to share it with the guinea pig! Pilot was not amused when he realized it wasn't food, throwing us a most accusing look, but Theo thought it very funny.