A new wedding ring

A new ring and a new haircut

This week, we made a trip to London to meet Ann's friend Sylvia. I am still reluctant to go too far in the city, so we drove to Stratford and stayed in a local hotel. I booked in while Ann chatted over coffee then, having a couple of hours free, I decided to get a haircut. The nearest to the hotel was called Blue Tit, an odd name but apparently a bird favoured by the owner. I got an early appointment and was dealt with by Roland, a very slim gentleman from Latvia who did a competent short back and sides. His fees, however, where somewhat north of the fee I usually pay in Clare, and infinitely more than my usual hairdresser - Ann - charges. At least I looked neat for the photos when later I met Ann and Sylvia for a meal.

My new hairdresser

Dickens' writing chalet

When we first married, Ann and I were broke. Although we were both earning, Ann had been supporting a daughter as a single parent, and I had to support five children and an ex. My dad gave us a little money towards the wedding, from which Ann bought a hat in Coventry, and she chose a very thin Samuels ring with her sister in York. Now, nearly thirty years later, we decided on a romantic whim to renew our pledge to each other and celebrate with a more solid gold band. By coincidence, I had noted a Beaverbrooks on my way through the centre, and the lady there, Gina, could not have been more helpful and welcoming, delighting in our romantic story. She found the ideal ring and declared it a miracle, as normally lady's rings only went up to size R, but this was an isolated larger ring, just made for Ann's finger. Gena sat us in the wedding alcove, and brought out champagne to celebrate, taking a picture for the record. She then insisted on  gift wrapping the ring as she would for any newlyweds. We rounded off the day in the cocktail bar of the hotel.

Candles of hope

Next day, we drove to Rochester for a spontaneous day out. Ann has been a few times, but I only twice despite living in Kent, so the city all seemed new to me with its ancient, cobbled streets and wonderful old houses with their Dickens connection. In the cathedral, we lit candles, then visited Dickens' writing-chalet, sent apparently as a flatpack by an admirer in France for Dickens to assemble. It is too fragile now for the public to enter, but they are in the process of renovating it. I tire and become breathless quickly, and the numbness in my fingers prevents me from typing fast. I am even reduced to tying my shoelaces like a child, having to watch where each loop goes, but we were invigorated to enjoy the freedom of new places, and are determined to get out and see more while we can.

Walking with the dogs through the woods today, I thought it not too late in life to try and learn a little of the many wildflowers blooming in the May sun. This one is a pretty little blue thing, apparently called Alkanet: not a name that trips off the tongue. It doesn't seem to have much human use, but is a good pollinator, attracting bees and other insects, so is clearly valuable to nature where it belongs and thrives.

Alkanet - a bright blue hedgerow plant

A visit by Matthew

Sunday lunch with Matthew and children

With two loud dogs, we are reluctant to invite young children to stay overnight as, although showing no sign of aggression to children, a vet once warned us ntall,ever to trust any dog with a child. Byron even gets jealous if I cuddle Ann, barking and poking his nose between us to separate us. Bronte gets jealous of Byron, growling and nipping him if he lets Mary-Anne make a fuss of him. So when Mathew and Rosie visited with our new grandson, Nye, and their daughter Arwen, they stayed at a Premier Inn. 

Arwen is a little cherub, with flaming red hair and a beautiful character. From a shy crying baby she has suddenly emerged as an inquisitive toddler, into everything she can reach, and happy to come to her grandad. I am glad they made the effort to travel down, for I still get tired and would not look forward to a long journey north. My scan result came back this week, and shows some fluid on the lungs that the radiologist recommended for further follow up. That might explain my breathlessness, but at least there were no recurrent secondaries there, and my brain was reported as "normal for age". 

David dressed

Mary-Anne came round this afternoon with the two girls, both growing into very bright young ladies. They suddenly said to Ann, "Granny, you don't clean your fridge magnets very often, do you?" 

"What makes you say that?" said Granny.

"Because six months ago, we covered your model of David with a tissue over his middle to make him respectable, and it's still there!"

A strange week

Luke visits Hundon

How lax I have been, neglecting my blog for lesser pursuits, yet much has happened for me to record, so I continue the saga. Our grandson Luke came to visit this week, on his way back to the University of Leeds where he is enjoying himself between studying, in the best traditions. His course is computer science, which should take him forward into the unknown future well prepared for whatever presents. I'm not sure if it was through good luck, a great tip, or the magic of computer analysis of the odds, but he managed to back the winner of the Grand National, Noble Yeats. Ann had considered this horse, but instead switched to the more generic name, Longhouse Poet. Luke picked it for a more prosaic reason. He thought the name reminded him of a modern term currently popular among teenagers, Yeets, which my urban dictionary defines as "an exclamation of excitement, approval, surprise, or all-around energy", rather than the Irish poet. No doubt "YEETS!!" is what he said on winning at 50:1 odds.

At a different level, it was a worrying week when Bronte fell ill. I went into their room last week to find mess over the whole room. The smell was beyond imagining. She would not eat and could only pass small foul dribbles. On Sunday, we took her to the emergency vet, but with no improvement. That night we left her in the hall rather than their room; next morning, she had done the same in every corner of the hall, upstairs and down, including up the stairs and on the walls. Again, the mats went out for a solid hosing down and were hung on the fences to dry, and we took her back to the vets who this time gave antibiotics and Buscopan and advised a very bland diet. That night we shut her in the utility room. Happily, she seems to be improving now, though still far from normal.

The evidence

It seems to be a week for silly things. In their new home, Edwin has bought a lawnmower to cut the small front lawn. He then sent a picture titled "Look what I have done!". He is so used to modern internet-connected gadgets being able to predict his every wish, I think he thought that the lawnmower would magically sense the cable and switch itself off. 

For myself, I continue to get up frequently in the night for the toilet. Last night, I turned the bathroom light off to leave, but remembered by habit to reach for the spray to remove any evidence of my passing. My fingers are so numb I can no longer touch-type but have to look at the keys, and in the dark I held the spray the wrong way round and squirted my face instead of the air. At least I smelt fragrantly as I returned to bed.

Luke with Grandad John

Arming birds against a cat

My portrait of Nick on display

At a recent meal in the Swan, we were surprised to notice that Nick had pinned up the portrait I did of him. I gave it to him some time ago, but hadn't seen it anywhere, so assumed he had taken it up to his apartment above the pub.  Now it has appeared in the restaurant area, looking out proudly onto the diners, my first public piece! 

Having finished the portrait of Michelle, our late and much missed niece, Ann suggested I do one of her mother, Ann's sister Jane, so this I have started, choosing a picture from her youth to base it on. It has made a good start and I hope to finish it soon. I'm not sure what has drawn me to portrait painting, rather than rural scenes, or more imaginative works. I suspect I don't have much imagination or originality, so portraits are an easy option. However, I do feel sometimes I am cheating by painting only from photographs, even though I try to chose photos I've taken myself. Perhaps I can find a real-life class now I am retired and practice drawing people properly.

At the weekend, we gave some money to the bookies to enjoy the Grand National, although Edwin did manage to win enough to get his money back. Mary-Anne had the neat idea of letting her budgie choose a horse. She read out the list of runners in front of his cage, and let him choose by making the most noise against the runner he wanted. I think she hoped to have a new and profitable system, but alas the budgie did no better than the rest of us.

Mike continues to recuperate at home. He seems to be on even more medications than me, but appears to be in good spirits, and says his partner Ryan is looking after him in royal manner. Alas, he has not managed to go 'cold turkey' in stopping smoking, although he has managed to cut down a little. Our thoughts go with you Mike, for your recuperation and your will power.

Today I walk the dogs while Ann goes into Waitrose. Walk is an ambitious verb. More accurately, I take them for a shuffle ambling about in a random manner in the Sudbury park, not liking to stray too far from the entry point and the sanctuary of the car. In the middle of the field a young couple are picnicking; their toddler sees the dogs and starts to cross towards them, rapidly chased by the alarmed mother who snatches him up before he's half way to us. There are many youths about but they do not frighten, seemingly enjoying cans of Coke in the sun rather than snifters of coke. No, it is myself I fear of getting too tired or breathless and struggling to return. Some boys are by the river barely 100 yards away but a long-distance hike for me to watch them jumping in off the roof of a brick hut and swimming across, a feat I wouldn’t have done even in youth. 

Lion poo guarding the birds

Ann has two loves: birds and trees. She watches in sadness as the latter are felled but can do little to prevent it. But now a new enemy has come to take down her birds: our neighbour's cat.  It squats on the roof of the saloon waiting to pounce and Ann has declared war against it, short of chemical weapons. Initially our flapping Ukrainian flag was enough so hold it at bay, but now it has rebuilt its courage to try a fresh offensive. Ann's friend in the village recommended 'Silent Roar' lion poo and brought some round which has been sprinkled liberally. Then we bought a cat alarm which screeches with a high pitch in the cat's ear. Now she has bought a whole tank full of citronella. I found a spray for it and this too has been added to the arsenal. Now we wait to see if these weapons of deterrence work

An inauspicious year

The year 2022 is going to be recorded in the annals of Grandad John as an annus horibilis. In addition to my own deteriorating health and the end of my working life, both our friends Malcolm and now Rae have gone down with Covid, and today we received notice that Mike has been admitted to hospital with a heart attack. He is still only 47 and ought to be in good health. Today, he had a cardiogram with dyes pumped through his arteries, showing a blockage in one, so they have fitted a stent. At the same time, I was having dye pumped through my veins for a whole-body CAT-scan. At least mine was just a check-up, and hopefully will not throw up any nasty surprises.

I have commented before that Byron invariably finds a ball when he is out. Usually it is a tennis ball, sometimes new sometimes already shredded; occasionally a full football; once, a child's beachball with coloured lights in it that flashed every time he shook it in his mouth. Today, he found a minature football hiding in the long grass/ Barely an inch across, I was frightened he might choke on it so had to take it off him, to his disgust. 

Newsy catchup

A family photo

Yesterday afternoon was a follow-up appointment with the oncologist. I am still short of breath on effort, my ankles are swollen, and I have peripheral neuropathy with numbness and tingling in the fingers, but my blood parameters for renal function have been improving, and even my haemoglobin has increased from 9.0 to 10.0 g/dL (normal for men is 14-17). My fear was that she would offered me the choice to continue treatment or not, saying "we can try one more if you'd like to", which would put the onus on me, with consequent worry if I had made the 'right' choice. If I went into renal failure again, I would probably wish I hadn't gone on with it, or if the cancer came back quickly, I would have regretted stopping. Nevertheless, the consultant decided I should permanently stop the immunotherapy, as at my age it may be doing more harm than good. I had been wondering whether to request it be stopped anyway, so now the decision is made for us, and I am glad. We asked about the overall prognosis, but she refused to commit, saying she will know more when I have had my next full scan, delayed through after-Covid pressures on the NHS. She ended by saying I might die of old age yet. I said, "you mean I might live to 88 instead of 80?" but she looked doubtful at this thought! Perhaps she meant 81 instead of 80.

My brother Richard and his wife, Chris, visited on Saturday, their first for nearly three years. Edwin and Andre joined us for tea to introduce Andre to some new members in our family. Needless to say, Bronte insisted on being included in the family photoshoot. Richard has lost much of his hair, but otherwise is in remarkably good health and is currently arranging a five-mile hike for his men's group. In contrast, I remain hairy on top while being a complete wreck underneath.

Mike has sent Ann a belated Mothering Sunday gift of a bracelet and a book of Bronte letters. This is so thoughtful, and reflects a rare love for a good stepmother. In pleasing Ann he pleases me, so the gift is doubly appreciated. He and Ryan run a new business from home designing websites, and which seems to go better each month, so we all wish them well with it.

Even though the majority of the population have been well jabbed, Covid seems to draw closer despite - or because of - the new freedoms we're enjoying. Next weekend, Ben and Kaz should have stayed with Luke, their son, but Ben has gone down with Covid for the second time and is quite unwell. Andre and Edwin had invited them over for Sunday lunch, so that will not happen either. Luke is studying computer science at Leeds, and gets on well with Andre whose career is also computerature. One of our friends in Haverhill, Malcolm, has also gone down with Covid and Edwin had it recently, so we are all too aware of the continuing risk. Malcolm also is well into his 80's, so our thoughts are with him for a full recovery.

Time to abolish general practice

Our GP surgery is proving increasingly incompetent and incapable of providing even basic services. I came out of Addenbrookes Hospital ten days ago, having been admitted with acute kidney failure (AKF). The treatment there was excellent, despite crowded wards and huge time pressures on the staff. AKF is monitored by measuring the blood levels of two breakdown products excreted by the kidneys: urea and creatinine. Both had been high on admission, but fell with treatment, and the consultant oncologist requested the GP to arrange follow-up blood tests after my discharge. 

It took three visits, a phone call, and an email of complaint from Ann before they would issue the blood form, and I finally I had to take a copy of my discharge letter in because the surgery couldn't find it. Then one of the GPs phoned in response to Ann's email to say the form would be ready to collect yesterday morning. Needless to say he was abrupt and annoyed, not bothering to even ask how I was since coming out of hospital. Ann went into the surgery, but the staff refused to give her the form, insisting I had to go for it in person. She was furious, and wrote about the experience on the Clare Facebook page. Of course, the GP surgery themselves don't do blood tests anymore, so I had to go to West Suffolk or Sudbury. Neither is available as a drop-in service anymore, and there was a waiting time of one week at Bury and ten days at Sudbury. In the end, I went to the drive-through centre at Cambridge, and they agreed to do the test there as it was for Addenbrookes.

I am writing this blog as Ann thought her Facebook post might attract a few replies from people to say they had had good experiences at the surgery. In fact, there was a torrent of responses, all negative, some heart-breaking, saying how poor was the service they had received. I was in hospital and GP practice for over twenty-five years, including time spent as a locum at the Clare practice when we first moved to Suffolk. We used to pride ourselves in being a family service, knowing the people of Clare, and giving a personal service with rapid appointments, and home visiting. Now, all that has gone by the board. Covid may have precipitated the end of traditional general practice, but there is no sign that it will ever return. 

I earnestly believe that general practice in this country is now dead. It should be completely scrapped, and a new salaried drop-in service started to replace it, supplementing the excellent work of A&E departments, and taking much of the pressure off them. All patient records are now available throughout the NHS, so anyone with an NHS registration number should be free to go to whichever drop-in centre they wish. These centres would be adjacent to pharmacies and a nursing station for blood tests and general procedures currently done through GP services. The whole thing should be centrally organised, streamlined and aimed at the convenience of patients rather than the profit of GPs. It is time for a fundamental overhaul of primary care in this country, and this must start with the abolition of GP surgeries which refuse to see patients or apply basic common sense.