that one can never rely on the weather, particularly English weather. Last weekend I was drunk on sunshine and gardening, the whole of this week I have been fending off the black dog. Overflowing with the joys of spring one minute,
miserably staring out of the window at grey skies the next. Even a rainbow doesn’t help, it’s so short-lived it’s hardly worth getting excited over. Instead of being able to relax into a pleasantly reliable summer season, we feel that we must rush out and make use of every drop of sunshine there is; you never know, there might not be any more.
This business of ‘making the most of it' is really exhausting. It’s like having to work to a deadline, having to cram everything that normally happens over a period of three months into a weekend; at the seaside towels are spread out with inches to spare between tribes, other people’s brats kick sand into your picnic; roads to beauty spots are clogged with day trippers and, unheard of with modern cars, some idiot has managed to break down at the narrowest bit. Motorways have road works going on and witches’ hat cones wait to pounce on the hapless motorist. Even sensible people like us, who stay at home, can’t allow themselves to relax. Tables and chairs have to be brought out, meals have to be taken out-of-doors, and there has to be a constant flow of “what a lovely day” - “look at that sky” - "isn’t this wonderful”, as if not mentioning your good fortune might make it disappear again.
Mention it or don’t, it’ll disappear again before you can get get the chairs back under cover.
On a completely unrelated subject: I took Beloved to the eye clinic for another injection. He went in to see the consultant, while I stayed in the waiting area. A short while afterwards a chap from the other end from where I was sitting came up to me, in a hurry, and greatly disturbed. “That gentleman you came in with, well, he came out of the consulting room and marched off, down the corridor.” “Really? I wonder why”, I said. “Yes, he was actually striding down the corridor”. The chap was obviously inviting me to get up and see where my ‘gentleman’ had disappeared to. Sometimes people have this effect on me, they become earnest and urgent and I feel obliged to fall in with their wishes. I passed a small group of people waiting and they all sped me on my way as I walked by. “Down that corridor”, they said as one man, “he was going really fast.” They had obviously discussed this phenomenon amongst themselves.
You know how this resolves itself, don’t you?
At the other end of the corridor is a Gents. I opened the door and Beloved was just washing his hands. I told him about having been sent on a mission by a gaggle of excited patients. He laughed. “I asked the consultant if there was time for a pee before the injection,” he said.
When you are sitting waiting in any kind of clinic, bored, with nothing to do, you might pass the time by examining fellow patients and it is all too easy to make up a story and come to the wrong conclusion, a kind of mild mass hysteria. The benevolent kind in this instance. I suppose dementia is fairly common now.
I should have thrilled them and said “Just managed to get hold of him before he threw himself out of the window”, but one always has the best ideas afterwards.