Resourcefulness, Frogs and Rumour Mills

Guiseppe Arcimboldo  -  Autumn  -  1573

Post Autumn Equinox, and the nights are drawing in. Beloved and I have had no enjoyment of summer at all; a whole barrowload of problems has seen to that. And when his problems lessened came the tailend: first I fell over, then I came down with a sudden cough and bronchitis which are lingering. Cough medicine on an empty stomach made me feel nauseous. Resourceful as I am, I thought to make myself sick with a finger down my throat. The resultant dry heaving was not only extremely painful, it also set off a bout of AFib. Once again, resourcefulness was called upon: I took a double dose of my beta blockers, paracetamol and a tranquilliser (Oxford spelling - I just looked it up!) right away, and the ordinary dose at the regular time. Whenever I tell a doctor they present a short intake of breath, and mumble: “some cocktail”. Anyway, it worked.

I have written about nothing but doctors and ailments and our general physical decrepitude for weeks. And even that only very intermittently. No wonder followers are leaving in droves. (I can’t be bothered to find out who you are - so no repercussions.) Thank you to all who have stayed with me, sent good wishes and wrote lovely comments. It feels good to know that one is not alone when the going gets tough and that others too have experience of sad times.

I am trying to make gardening easier. Removing clumps of herbaceous perennials I often come across co-residents, as this frog. He hopped away from me when my fork came a bit too close for his liking but he jumped no more than a couple of feet, there staying stock-still and posing for my camera. I encourage these fellows, in their capacity of slug police they cannot be faulted.

For several months a rumour has haunted Valley’s End that our favourite doctor, the one who saved our lives during the recent calamity, is about to retire. One chap had him taking up a job delivering BMWs, somebody else said there was general short-livedness in the doctors’ family and he was going to retire to enjoy whatever time he had left; yet another person had it for definite that the doctor’s wife had killed herself and he just couldn’t get over it. And more, each reason more outlandish and far fetched.

I can’t be doing with rumours, I need facts. At the end of the last consultation with him, we had the following conversation:

Me : “What on earth are we going to do without you?
Doc., laughing: “Nobody is indispensable”.

Me: “O yes, you are. You are too valuable for us to lose you. You are the only one who takes the time to explain things. Besides, you aren’t old enough to leave.”

Doc., laughing again : “well, I will be 60 at my next birthday. But leave? Not as far as I know. Who says?”

Me :”There’s a strong rumour doing the rounds that you are about to leave, even worse, that you are leaving before the end of the year.”

Doc. “Leave? I’ve already booked a holiday for the rest of this year and put in a holiday request for next year. So it might seem that I’m keen on holidays but I’m not retiring just yet.”

Beloved, heaving a great sigh of relief,: “Right, so I can be sick for a bit longer.”

Laughter all round.

Who comes up with such drivel? How does the rumour mill function? Who sets it off? Many patients have been going from person to person, doing the ‘between you, me and the bedpost’ dance, upsetting many others. As soon as I am told anything ‘in the strictest confidence’ I know I am being but a cog in the rumour machine, expected to spread the word.

Well, no. Find another muggins.