Paulo's Spanish Evening

Edwin and Sarah perform the Nutcracker

Paulo Lopes was Edwin's piano teacher, before work pressure forced Edwin to drop the lessons. He is Portugese, and always holds a lively end-of-year party to which we're all invited. The theme was a Viva España evening, with casternets and hats provided, and song-sheets for some Spanish songs to lend flavour, aided by Paulo's Punch, a leathal cocktail sold as Sangria, but spiced with bottles of spirit that proved so devastating for Ann last year (see Paulo's ABBA party).

Paulo's partner has an ancient Juke Box that always belts out non-stop loud '50s classics, Roy Orbison being a favourite. Then, with Tchaikovsky being belted out on the pianos and ballet moves by Edwin and Sarah, the party seemed to draw to an early close. We had to leave early to finish packing for our flight in the morning, but everyone else seemed to wind down too.

...while Roy Orbison performs on the Juke Box

Next day, our friends Rae and Malcolm came to look after the dogs, and our taxi came to take us to Heathrow. An unfortunate accident meant a two hour wait on the M11, behind a recent accident from which we could not escape, with all traffic backed up to the previous junction. We had hoped for a couple of hours relaxation with a little late shopping, drinks and snacks, but it was not to be. We were among the last to check in for the flight, and were forced to move at speed through the airport to join the long queues to board, stressed and annoyed that the holiday had been frustrated at the start. But at least we did get there, and did catch the plane, so it could have have been much worse.

A year older, and the brain slows down

Clare footbridge collapsed

Today was my birthday. Last year, I celebrated at Addenbrookes Hospital Radiotherapy department. To celebrate this year, I managed to get an appointment with the local doc to get some treatment for my UTI (urine tract infection). I have had ++++ of blood for some time, and PUing (passing urine) is a nightmare of indecision: will it, won't it? I stand waiting for a long age to see what will trickle out, and it is invariably painful and drips like a thawing iceberg. Dr O'Donnell was quick and effective, agreeing that the thick cream-coloured yuk I had provided was suggestive of infection, and gave me a prescription for the necessary antibiotics.

I managed to combine my medical visit with walking the dogs in Clare park. The old iron footbridge was closed off, with a gaping hole where one of the panels had smashed when someone was walking over it. Unfortunately, the poor man ended up with a broken leg.

In the evening, MA, Sam and one of the girls came round (the other had a heavy cold and chose to stay home), bringing an Indian takeaway to celebrate the day. Then Edwin came through bearing the cake with a few token candles, and we drew some presents from the lucky dip Ann always creates, which should have been for Christmas day, but got forgotten. We ended by playing the game drawn by our grandaughter, Picture This. Ann and I played with a slight disadvantage - we would stare at the pictures, slowly an indentification would form in our minds, but the long time gap between mentally indentifying the object and physically speaking the word was so long, inevitably the younger players could shout out the answer within a fraction of a second while we were still trying to focus on the card. If psychologists ever want to study the effect of aging in slowing the brain, they need look no further than to get their subjects to play Picture This.

In the evening, I was shivery, perhaps because of the infection, so Ann heated a wonderful neck warmer that my thoughtful niece Sue had given at the time of my radiotherapy, along with a warm blanket. Ben, for his part, had given a covered waterbottle, so I can tuck up in my chair, beneath a blanket, with neck and body warmed in various ways by caring people. Thank you all, it is good to have such support, and my heart goes out to those who must suffer illness alone. Last year, we lost our holiday to the Holy Land because of my cancer. Our forthcoming trip to Singapore will be our first big holiday for nearly two years, and we are all counting the days and now hours till we can get away. I am determined not to cost us another holiday, and I've told Ann she is to get me on that plane if she has to commandere one of the airport wheelchairs and push me onto it.

Christmas

The guinea pig died today, soon after midnight. Ann and Edwin had taken turns nursing him in a towel, and he died in Edwin's arms. I was already asleep, so they took him out to the side garden and buried him in the light of a torch, wondering at each moment if some suspicious nosey neighbour would call the police, but no one noticed their activities.

MA and the family called round in the afternoon for Christmas tea. Sam told us about a recent job he was on where the woman had made him a cup of tea. He had his hammer strapped to his belt, and swinging the cup up he caught it on the hammer and knocked the handle off. After that, the woman only ever gave him the same handle-less cup.

My darling

What can I give you husband
at this special time of year?
what can I give you
to make it crystal clear
that you are my life
and have made my living sweet
whatever can I give you
to make your world complete?

Annie Elliott 

Ann's poem for Christmas is a rare present indeed - how many people can boast of such a gift? It saddens me how little I seem to do in return. I am unworthy to lick this woman's boots. Thank you my darling for all you have done and all you continue to do for me and the family, everyone of us. You are a beacon of love in this dark, dark world, and we delight in the joy you bring. Your gift to me is your presence in my life; all else is but the false glitter of trappings. May you know peace and joy in the year ahead, for you work so hard and deserve so much, and sometimes get so little in return, yet you keep on giving. Thank you.

Christmas Eve

Lucy was involved in an accident, so close to Christmas too. She had the children in the car and was stationary when another car driving at speed shunted a third car into her. The car in the middle was smashed in, but the driver of the car that hit them grabbed something from the locker and ran off. Fortunately Lucy's car was not too bad. The police clearly thought it was drug-related, but they still insisted on breathalysing Lucy and making her wait with the shaken children while they took statements. The car in the middle was undrivable, and full of Christmas shopping and presents that the owners couldn't easily get back.

Walking the dogs in the park, a young Asian woman was coming towards me in the distance. Dressed in light blue jeans with a dark anorak and hood, and mustard gloves, she appeared to be alternating between jogging and a walk. As she drew nearer, she seemed to see the dogs and turned suddenly to half jog-half walk back, though at such a pace I was keeping up with her even at my old-man's gait. In the open parkland, she turned round to come towards me again. Suddenly, she lurched to one side through the gate into the children's play area, though no child was with her, as though desperate to avoid me. I must check in the mirror when I get home.

Pilot the guinea pig lies in Edwin's arms

I met Ann after her hair, who had mentioned to her hairdresser how Edwin loves the best in life. She quickly replied, "he has champagne ambitions on a lemonade income!"

At the bar, a man was relating how he'd been donated a huge 60-inch television by his mother-in-law. He carefully fitted it to the wall, but then discovered it used more electricity than his hot tub, so he's going to have to get rid of it.

Now, our poor guinea pig, Pilot, appears to be at the door of death. He was lying moribund in Ann's arms while I shredded paper to try and make a softer nest than sawdust and straw. Edwin then took him and cleaned him, but he is barely moving. The dogs sit by his feet watching anxiously, but make no effort to attack him.

out of time

Suddenly
and without warning
you find
you are out of your time
your thoughts and ideas
trip and stumble
while your wayward mind
harks back to a simpler day
when all was knowing
and knowing was all
before technology
twined with adventurous youth
held sway
colouring each day
now the life you once knew
sinks to mean nothing at all
just a sorry shadow
cast in a blurred rainbow

Annie Elliott 

Ann continues to write fantastic poetry, and draws large numbers of readers from round the world. out of time is a moving reminder of how the world we once knew and thought we understood moves on, inevitably leaving us behind, as though we never really knew it at all.

Hazards to hens and thatched cottages

Our friends Rae and Malcolm came round for coffee. Ed is the Post-Grad Representative at his University, and told us about a faculty meeting he'd just attended where one agenda item was to discuss a severe fall between the number of post-grad applications and the number taking up offers of 50%, compared to the previous year of 2%. Underneath was a rider saying, "please discard this item. It was based on a wrong column in Excel."

They told us of their daughter's hens, of which there was now only one left.  It had been attached by a fox, and then some visitors came with a Spinone Italiano - a huge hairy Italian hunting dog. They next saw the dog walking round the garden with the hen hanging out of its mouth. Its intestines had come out, but they pushed them back in, the hen recovered and is still walking round the garden.

Then over mince pies and sherry they mentioned that the mobile barber was in Hundon. I had not seen their van for some years, but I used to go to Mike the Barber, so I toddled off to get the toupee trimmed. I knocked and opened the rear door of the van, but it was not Michael the barber, but Michelle the Hair Stylist. The van was empty, but she said she was chocka, and it was appointment only.

Then to Clare, where I walked the dogs and waited in the Swan while Ann did same late Christmas shopping, and booked me a cancellation with our regular hair dressers. At the bar, one of the men said his occupation was fitting sprinkler systems. One of his companions asked what he would do with a thatched cottage. "Sell it and move out!" he said, "they're total fire traps." He then told how he'd been driving to a job when diverted to a column of smoke he could see. It was a thatch fire, with the elderly couple in the garden by a bonfire, the sparks of which had started the fire. He dashed in to pull out all he could save in the way of photographs and clothes, for he knew there'd shortly be nothing left. The fire engine then arrived, but had no water, so ran a hose to the pond in the garden. They refused to help rescue anything though, because they said any furniture would be a three-man lift. Then reinforcements arrived: because they would be there for some time, a catering truck drew up, complete with tables and chairs for the firemen. Sometime later, the couple saw the man in the pub and said how grateful they were, and they wished there was some way they could repay him. He said, "well there's a bar over there. You can at least buy me a f***ing drink."

A real meal

Taking of fires, this evening I made the meal for us all. This was a big event for one shameful reason - I so rarely do anything more than toast, and even then I always need a knife at the ready to scrape the black away. The last time I prepared a meal, potatoes still had to be bought by the pound, scrubbed and peeled. Edwin still remembers the few times I tried to cook a pizza when Ann was away, and I inevitably pulled them out as a flaming burnt offering. On the only two occasions I barbecued sausages, everyone was severely ill for several days.  But this time I was shamed into it by Edwin, who arm-twisted me into it.

In fairness, he did pull all the ingredients from the freezer, and stood over me to make sure nothing was burnt. Between us, and mostly due to Edwin showing me what to do with frozen mash and measuring out the gravy granules, I created (vegetarian) sausage and mash with baked beans. Amazing. At this rate, we'll be opening a Johnie's Bangers and Mash Parlour for Ravenous Wayfarers.

Hit by floods

Floods in Clare

We drove to London yesterday through heavy rain and some deep floods, fearful that the car might be swamped, but fortune smiled and we got through. Ann met her friend Sylvia who lives in London, but we had to show her back to the Stratford Underground Station, as she would get lost on her own. Hopefully she found the right platform.

On returning, I went to meet the Hundon Men's group at our local. We had a newcomer, called colloquially Yorkshire Dave, who reminded me of how soft is that dialect, though he lives in Manchester now. He was visiting one of our group to sing in a "Friends of Friendless Churches" group, set up to fund ancient but unused churches that might otherwise be demolished. They met over 40 years ago at an OU Art and Design course, and Yorkshire Dave still teaches art including a weekly etching class at Rawtenstall in Rossendale, home of some of the Moorhouse ancestors. He has just written a book on Model Villages, but has thus far been unable to find a publisher.

We has a quiet rant about the problem of maintaining modern cars. One guy needed new spark plugs. No local garage could tackle the job as it required the manifold to be removed which needed special tools, so he had to take his car to the dealers in Cambridge. It cost him £393 for four spark plugs. Another wanted to replace the battery in their Mini which had gone flat. He couldn't even find the battery, and that too had to be taken to a garage where they dismantled some sub-assembly to reach it. A third, less lucky than me, had swamped his car in the village floods, and had to have it towed away; it won't be back till the New Year.

Ducks take refuge

Today I took the dogs to Clare to walk in the park. The path by the river was deep in water, and even the ducks were seeking refuge on a log. Getting back to the car, a man said, "you know your front number plate is missing?". I drove furtively home, keeping an eye for the police, thinking it must have been stolen from the car in London. Seemingly, bad people take these plates and fix them to their own cars so they can speed or steal petrol. Ann started to order new plates for me, but then thought, perhaps it had been washed off by the heavy floods. We drove back along the lower road in her car, each keeping an eye out for a plate. Suddenly Ann saw it - on my side, but I'd missed it - and pulled the car in. I leapt out and ran back, but it was someone else's! Then coming back level to the car, I saw my the tip of my plate sticking out of the water in the deep ditch, completely invisible from the road. I had blamed the guiltless Londoners unjustly; it had clearly washed off by my own rush through the water (complete with a complex plastic surround, held on by five screws, now bent), and I had driven both ways down the M11 illegally. We would never have found it had Ann not stopped for the other plate.

Byron wonders where the path went

Life's music

Debenhams' Sale Con 

In town to collect our dollars for Singapore. In Tui, there were two assistants, one with a family gathered round discussing holidays in Tenerife, and the other on the phone finalizing another holiday. The first was clearly bogged down with the selection of hotels and flights and would clearly be a while; the second soon finished her final confirmation and I thought she would hang up and come over to me, but instead she started a long flirtation with whoever was on the line. "I hate boring people," she said, glancing my way. "I love people who are different. I'm a bit mad, but my gran's madder than me. She's crazy - whenever I go out with her, she always embarrasses me." She continued like this, swinging in her chair so I could see only her back, and showed no sign of finishing or hinting that there was a customer waiting. Finally, the other assistant excused herself from dealing with the large family to come over to the Exchange Kiosk, having recognised me and guessing I would not be long. On the plus side, the pound has continued to climb since I ordered the currency on Friday, and over three days, I was over £100 better off.

I met Ann in Debenhams, where she was choosing a jumper because they have a sale on. On every rail, and above each display, were huge notices announcing "HALF PRICE", but when I took the jersey to the counter, it was only reduced by a small percentage. The woman explained that not everything was half price. I went back to the display to check, and there in minisule writing was a tiny rider, "up to", completely invisible until I was a few inches from the notice. Surely that must count as a con? Even the wording, 'Up to half price', implies the asking price is half or less of the ticket price.

life

The music in her soul
goes whirling round and round,
there is hope in her heart
for nothing gets her down
there's a smile for the world
a stifling of each frown
for she will never give in
as she turns her luck around.
life, is such a blend of pleasure
with a bitter dash of pain,
life, goes on through stormy weather
and is softened through the rain
for sunshine follows sadness
as a rainbow fills the sky
for life is just a game of chance
which we play until we die

Annie Elliott 

Ann's new poem is a beautiful oxymoron, and is herself to a T. She is always so positive and cheerful and an inspiration to all of us, yet it contains the seeds of inevitable ending and parting that we all must face. When I put it in, I thought it would have no bearing on the mundane events of the day, but as I read it now I know it is Ann's music every day. She will always turn luck around for each of us, but especially mine.

For some reason I can't fathom, outside the UK, the big majority of my blog readers are in Ukraine. I have only been to Ukraine once, when Edwin took me to the Eurovision Song Contest, and I loved the place, though I only saw Kiev. I don't know what is attracting Ukraine citizens to this blog, but you're all very welcome, and I'd love to hear from any of you if you care to comment.