Market Hall, Shrewsbury
The last traces of the week of woe have been tidied up, health problems are resolved and most importantly, we have a new fridge freezer, which is doing its job. I know how boring it can be when bloggers tell each other about mundane trivialities of daily life, but bear with me, this is my excuse for having been absent for a few days and not visiting. All shall be remedied in due course.
Beloved had his second skin cancer operation yesterday, which brings us to the end of this current spate of hospital visits. Everything seems to have gone well and we are looking forward to opening a bottle tonight, having something extraordinarily extravagant for dinner and letting the stresses and strains of enforced contact with the medical profession for both of us dissolve while watching a fluffy, undemanding film.
I felt pretty tense yesterday, not an advisable state to be in after my own recent health scare, but Beloved took it all in his stride. What it is to possess a calmly benevolent and imperturbable demeanour. At times I envy him, but it can also also be utterly infuriating.
Finalising the last bits of organising for the day (he had packed his own bag), I called to him, "We have about an hour." (The hospital is an hour's drive from us and what I meant was "Get on with it.") Whereupon he assumed his best bass voice and burst into the phrase the gaoler sings to Cavaradossi before the latter's execution in TOSCA.
Il resta un hora. Un sacerdote i vostre ceni attende . . . . . .
I'm not at all sure that I've got the Italian right, having only ever heard the words sung, but "You have an hour, a priest is here, should you wish to see him . . ." is roughly what it means in English. Did I say he also has a sense of humour?
If I tell you that I very nearly broke into somebody's car yesterday, you get an idea of my own state of mind. After I left Beloved in the Day Surgery Unit I went grocery shopping in the town. The new fridge/freezer - second attempt at getting the size right - only came on Tuesday; the job to fill the appliance awaited; spending a few hours shopping was as good a distraction as any and fulfilled a useful purpose into the bargain.
After stowing the final load in the boot, I took the trolley back to its parking space and went for a coffee.
When I came back to retrieve the car, I found the aisle without any trouble, I am quite good at remembering where I've parked. I blipped, heard the click of the doors opening and tried the handle. It didn't give. I blipped again, the click came and I pulled once more. Still no luck. I pulled harder, tried to rattle the handle, pulled, pushed, blipped again; nothing doing. I could hear the click each time I blipped but the blasted door just wouldn't budge.
Frantic now - this sort of thing would have to happen on the day when my schedule was fairly tight anyway - I looked into the car for help. The bag on the passenger seat was gone! I checked the boot through the back window. No shopping!
Something wasn't right, my car had sprouted fancy black seats instead of grubby pale tan ones. Finally, I understood: the blipper click had come from the car next in line, an identical red to the one I was attempting to break into, and therefore mine.
Back at the hospital Beloved was still perfectly calm; he allowed himself a slight feeling of irritation at the time it all took, but he was glad when the nurse brought him tea and toast; it had been a long day without food or drink.
I got us home safely (I hate driving on these drizzly dark evenings) and my stiff-upper-lipped man finally cracked. "Thank you for looking after me", he said, "I'm so glad it's all over."