The Phantom Shoe Stealer

The Missing Shoe

 Returning home after lunch with friends, I placed my shoes on the rack then noticed one of my other shoes was missing. Ever since Sam built our purpose-designed shoe rack, we have meticulously kept the shoes neatly arranged, rather than piled higgledy-piggledy, so I noticed the gap immediately.

I know I wore the blue pair this morning taking the dog for a walk and replaced them on the shelf as I got back to put on my slippers. I am even certain they were there as a pair when I took the blue and white lace-ups to go out for dinner. But coming back I am faced with an empty gap. Neither Annie nor I can logically deduce where it has gone. We have diligently searched every room in the house. I certainly don't remember hobbling round in one shoe at any stage, or in bare socks; indeed, it is a cliche that single socks often go missing, but how often do we complain of a missing shoe? The last time was years ago in Lyme Regis, when we walked along the foot of the Jurassic Coast and Annie lost one shoe in the deep mud which sucked it off and swallowed it. But we knew where it was - only that we couldn't retrieve it, so she hobbled into a gimmicky sea-front store to buy a plastic pair of sandals for the walk back to the car.

No, this disappearance is on a different scale. I considered the possibility of a one-legged burglar, but in that case why not steal all the right shoes? Annie reminded me that we had had one visitor before we went out: the Ocado delivery man, who carried the bags into the house; but he definitely had two legs. Perhaps he had a one-legged brother who was short of a shoe? Unlikely, plus I escorted him out through the door without spotting a secreted shoe in his pocket. Ann thinks it may have been carried out mixed with rubbish, but the bins were emptied this morning so I cannot check that theory. No, much though I don't believe in the occult, it seems the only explanation now is a shoe-stealing poltergeist. I shall watch the other pairs very carefully. 

On the kindness of Londoners

The new V&A East Storehouse

For Ann's birthday last month, Edwin and Andre had treated us to tickets to the new production of Evita at the London Palladium, which we saw on Friday. The weekend coincided with the end of Andre's parents tour of Italy and Switzerland and a week staying in Bury St Edmund's (The Brazilians come to Europe), so we came up in two cars. 

We always park in the Westfield shopping centre at Stratford, and Edwin was keen to see the new V&A extension gallery in the new warehouse complex just outside the centre. He parked and walked back in a weltering 30+degrees of sun having thoughtfully dropped us at the door for a coffee. The exhibition is an eclectic mixture of the world's odds and ends, of which the V&A has over two million items, mostly stored in basements and off-site; so this was a good example of what to do with undisplayed stock which most museums have in abundance. The objects were stacked for view on great girdered shelving reminiscent of garage shelving, most still mounted and strapped to palettes for ease of transport.

Enjoying London Vegan Cuisine

One thing we have noticed about London recently is how polite and helpful young people seem to be. This started at the warehouse museum, where all bags must be locked away before admission. I was fumbling with the code lock when an attendant kindly stepped up to help, holding down a small code key while I entered an incorrect code I would never remember - but she simply wrote the locker number and the true code on a slip of paper and handed it to me with a smile. Later, on the Elizabeth line, a young man stood to offer me his seat, even though there were many seats free to either side. Generally, it is reported that the young are resentful at the privilages of we oldies, forgetting how little we too had at their age, and how hard we worked to get what we have, and certainly in supermarkets we notice the impatience of some as we oldies fumble with our cards or packing. But Annie thinks the politeness in London is linked to the high influx of newcomers who still hold a modicum of respect for age. 

We finally met up at a crowded vegan restaurant in Soho for a delicious mix of delicacies, then on to the theatre. There were long queues waiting to go through a couple of entrances, but seeing me with my stick, another young man fetched me from the queue and took Annie and I weaving through the queues to a side door which he opened with his pass, then ushered us to a lift to avoid the stairs. At the top, another attendant met us to usher us to our seats, even waiting for us while Annie went to the toilet.

The performance is amazingly innovative, especially in using live multimedia projection of Rachel Zegler's balcony performance singing Don't Cry for me, Argentina, sung on the outside balcony to the inevitable London crowd but screened to us on stage. Unfortunately, I was my usual ignorant self, not having known any of this, so I thought for some reason it must all have been pre-recorded rather than live external camera work, so the wonderful innovation was a little wasted on me. Everyone else seemed to know though, so I couldn't understand why the audience went so wild with applause for a filmed sequence! Only afterwards did Edwin explain what had been going on. Not withstanding my ignorance, it was a brilliant show and thoroughly deserving of its plaudits.

Saturday had us enjoying one of Annie's speciality cream teas, a special English treat for the Brazilian visitors, before the boys took them back to Heathrow on Sunday, via an afternoon at Kew Gardens, unfortunately in the rain as the hot spell has now broken.

The Brazilians come to Britain

Up a Swiss mountain

Edwin and Andre have been touring Italy and Switzerland with Andre's family, using the flexible Euro railcard for unlimited travel. One highlight was ascending to over 12,000 feet by a series of cable cars, where breathing is difficult, and Edwin had to buy a thick jersey against the cold, having only packed for an Italian sun. Apparently, I am to inherit it on their return - Edwin does not routinely wear jerseys.

I had agreed to pick them all up from City Airport on their return. At 6:30pm, when due to leave, we discovered their BA flight was delayed by ninety minutes, so I left about 8:00pm before they took off, as their flight time would be less than my drive time. Just reaching London at the end of the M11, Annie phoned. The flight had been delayed by another hour of more, so she advised me to turn back and wait at a roadside cafe over a cup of coffee. It being nearly ten o'clock on a Sunday night, most places were already shut, so I went back to Stansted service station. Everywhere there was close to shutting too, but I could get a KitKat and a large coffee from a Costa machine. All the flight information proclaimed the flight would still be landing at City; but City Airport has a 10pm curfew and shuts to all flights from 10:00pm.

I could watch the flight as it turned over the Thames estuary towards City, but it then did an abrupt ninety degree turn north; and Annie finally tracked it as diverted to Stansted, rather than Gatwick or God-knows where. Finishing my coffee, I drove into the short-stay at Stansted. Even at eleven pm, the arrivals hall was packed, for it is the hub of Ryanair, and this is the holiday season. A flight was landing every five or ten minutes, with crowds of dreary-eyed people, still in sun hats and fancy shirts, pouring through the gate - though all with minimal baggage, this being Ryanair: much of it looked no larger than an overnight bag. 

Intermixed were other groups diverted from Southend, where a small plane had crashed earlier and closed the airport. An hour later, after clearing immigration, the baggage handlers found a free belt for the BA flight, and a few smarter-looking and well-dressed folk began to trickle through, many with the full BA luggage allowance, marking them our from the tourists. Although Edwin knew and Annie had discovered the City curfew, the passengers hadn't been told until they were on board and now looked totally lost and confused. Even one of the flight attendents told her friend: "I don't even know where Stansted is!" British Airways clearly consider such airports beneath its dignity.

Finally, the boys came through with Elsio and Socorra, Andre's parents, desperately tired looking with their substantial cases, and eager to get a cup of coffee, for here everything was open 24 hours including Smiths and Boots, to cater for the hungry arrivals and we who wait for them, seemingly through the whole night. We drove back in relative silence; I dropped them at the boys' door to finally get home at 1:30am. I just wish them a good week here with Andre to compensate for so terrible a journey.

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.

 

A celebratory cream tea

 

Celebration Tea from Matthew and Rosie

Finally, the huge run of daily visits to Addenbrooke's is over. I was told to have someone accompany me in case of nausea or feeling faint, and a tremendous team of four helpers stepped in to share the load, all willing to sacrifice their own time to drive me in and wait with me in a dreary, windowless room bursting with too many people for the seating. Each one has, or is related to, someone with some form of cancer, so an atmosphere of gloom and introspective hangs in the air as each in their own way ponders their future.  

Matthew and Rosie sent Annie a splendid cream tea, partly for mothers' day and partly to celebrate getting through the radiotherapy. She laid it out formally to have on the dining table in the sun. Delicious!

Now the sun is moving into its summer sky, I can sit in its warmth in my favourite armchair. I'm reading The People on Platform 5, a Christmas gift from Annie. It's a light and upbeat book, and a good counterpart to the mayhem on the news, and the stream of murder mysteries we watch to idle an evening hour.  

We hear a lot about 'influencers', and how they have thousands of followers, each presumably willing to buy some product the influencer is pushing that day. I wondered about becoming an influencer myself; would the handful of people who read this blog rush to buy whatever clothes I chose to wore? No, they would not. But perhaps I can be a de-influencer. Annie buys me lovely clothing, but as soon as I don it, it seems to change in subtle ways until I always seem to be dressed in shoddy, stained, left-me-overs. I think companies should pay me not to wear their clothing or use their products, and add a bonus if I wear some rival's garb. If only I could build up a large readership for my posts, I could make a fortune as companies vie for me not to be seen in their clothing.

Radiothrapy updates

 Another week of radiotherapy is over. The days have been so similar and monotonous, varying only in the time of appointment or who ferries me in, that I haven't felt any urge to update this blog. The new procedure involves bombarding the area of skin with high-energy electrons from a small linear accelerator onto the scar on my back, where they removed the cancer from the muscles. The area is looking quite red now, like bad sunburn, so Annie is putting cream on as per recommendation. Now only three more sessions to endure.

The recommendation from Addenbrooke's is that I should be brought in by a driver, in case I feel sick or dizzy after the treatments. When it was Annie's turn to take me in, she went on to the Park 'n Ride to wait for me. Going there, a motorist followed, flashing lights and drawing up alongside her to shout through the window: "you've got a completely flat tyre!" Annie limped to the car park, but couldn't get Edwin, so phoned Andre who left work and was with her within ten minutes. He jacked up the car and removed the wheel nuts, but was unable to budge the wheel, so called to a burly Irish workman in the carpark for help. Even the two of them together couldn't shift the wheel, and they were afraid to rock or pull too violently in case the car fell off the jack. Luckily the Irish guy had a spray-type emergency inflator that blew it up sufficiently to get them to a Tyrecar in Cambridge. Edwin now arrived to pick me up, so the four of us were watching as the professionals tried to remove the wheel, but they too couldn't shift it. Finally, they took a heavy mallet and kept hammering the wheel till it finally fell with a satisfying rubber thud. We all let out a great cheer and applauded their efforts. The guy later said that VW wheels were notorious for corroding to the drum and were the worst vehicles for this.

Today was Andre's turn to take me in; an early start, leaving just after 7a.m. for 8a.m., but the poor radiotherapists start at 7a.m. so had already seen a string of patients. The NHS is clearly putting in the hours to get through their lists. Afterwards, Andre took me to ARM where he works, to show me round. It's a massive, complex campus, with multiple new buildings all belonging to ARM, and another under construction; clearly a very ambitious company that is doing well. They have several large dining areas that were deserted this early, but he generously bought me a wonderful full-English vegetarian breakfast, all freshly made and served, which made the early start well worthwhile.

Three of our close relatives are widows now: Ann's sister, Jane, my sister-in-law, Chris, and my ex-wife Nicola, whose second husband died some years after their marriage. All of them are going through a desolate time, emphasising how deep is the loss of a close partner. We know this treatment is no cure for rapidly spreading cancers like melanoma, but just hope several weeks of total disruption to our lives works sufficiently to damp it down and ultimately give us a little more time to enjoy life together.