Age is in the Eye of the Beholder

yes, yes, I know that is not how the saying goes, but during the last year or so, what with the endless visits to all kinds of doctors and surgeons and health workers, I have heard so many variants on the theme I am getting blasé about it all.

Well, what do you know, I am still alive and relatively well. In fact, as of the last cystoscopy on Wednesday, I am cancer free and the next rummage in my internals is not for six months. Because I had very few symptoms I almost forgot about that part of the troubles. The most unpleasant and directly life shrinking effect is that I leak. Wherever I go I need to know where the toilets are, I need to buy and wear pads, just in case. I am being referred to a specialist who might know why that is (other than the bladder cancer) and who might have a solution. Or might not. I am the unlucky patient who reacts violently to most medication and must therefore be treated with great care, lest the treatment is worse than the condition.

As for the damaged leg muscle, that is a whole other kettle of fish. I have had one of those beastly great big steroid injections into the bone, with local anaesthetic and therefore bearable, but it has made little difference. I have one further appointment with a specialist in September; he is the man who has already told me that the injection was the final attempt at alleviating the pain. All the musculoskeletal people talk about pain; as I have very little unless I work the leg harder than I should, I just stare at them, trying to understand. What am I, immune to pain?

So, I pick up my trusty crutch, look where I put my feet, and hobble. And simply accept the fact that I am now classed disabled. I even have a Blue Badge (which is a laminated disk which allows the holder to park wherever they need to, without restrictions). All the people who give me lifts are very pleased.

As for the age bit? Every time I see the main bone and muscle man he looks me in the eyes, all serious, and gently says "after all, you are ........"  He had a Registrar with him last time and I brightly gave it as my opinion that age is just a number. I am not sure that either of them was impressed.

Most health professionals see only two interpretations: Number one is "For your age you are doing well" and Number two is "At your age what can you expect". I go with "Age is just a number". It'll do me.

Now What?

I've been well enough to restart/continue this blog for at least two months. The last chemo was in November 24, it took me six weeks or so to get over side effects, soreness from operations, and generally picking myself up off the floor. I had the temporary all clear in January 25 and will have the next instalment check up in a week's time. If all is well I will be left in peace for the following six months.

At the moment I am feeling well physically, if it weren't for the dratted leg and missing muscle in my right hip. A crutch will have to be my permanent companion from now on; nothing can be done to reattach the muscle, there is an operation but my consultant surgeon says it has never yet been successful.

As for the minor cancer on the back of my head, well that's of no great importance. Acc. to the dermatologist surgeon the bladder cancer chemo may even have shrunk it; in any case, it is extremely slow-growing and can easily wait to be dealt with until after there is clarity on the more important cancer. In order to avoid long waiting lists for free consultations I have been paying for them but, of course, this being the UK, all further treatments are free on the NHS. If this were the US I'd be bankrupt.

So, that's that.

Now to my blog. I do not fool myself into thinking that my former readers are all waiting breathlessly for me to tap those keys again. A few of you have been kind enough to ask for updates. Thank you. Well, here's the update. 

What is truly bothering me is the state of the world, in particular the dire situation in the US, its effect on geopolitics and the upending of the world order. It looks like democracy is on the retreat. Anger, anxiety and hatred are on the increase; the mildest, most peaceful, calm people openly profess hatred and send useless imaginary death wishes. Attitudes towards war and bloodshed divide nations and people suffer, children are maimed and killed in their hundreds and thousands. It breaks my heart and the heart of every compassionate, thinking person. In fact, on two occasions impotent rage at news reports have sent me into Atrial Fibrillations. Literally a breaking heart.

Is a blog wittering on about mundane daily doings really the answer for me? Even if there is a handful of people who might like to read me - are there still any at all ? - is writing and reading general blogs relevant at this time? Is looking at something like Monty Python's Bright Side of Life the antidote to the general despair?

I mentioned my unhappiness with the state of the world and politics in particular to a Social Prescriber (a whole new type of professional counsellor for practical matters like what to do about mobility, how to access help for all sorts of things ); she thought writing it all out would be beneficial to me as well as recharge my lost creativity. And she also thought that the ME I lost roughly the same time as I had the first diagnosis would stand a better chance of reappearing once I allowed myself to both stand back from and look deeper into my state of mind.

Will blogging help? We'll see.

PS

If nobody reads this it doesn't matter. It took quite some effort to sit down at my computer. As well as courage. I don't want to become a political blog but I also can't stick my head in the sand. I don't mean to give offence but if you feel offended, tough titty.

I was looking at the Formatting pages and how to exclude some readers (mainly very close to home non-followers) but it looks like I'd have to restrict readership completely and go from Public to entirely Private. Any ideas?

Hello darkness my old friend,

 I've mislaid Me, the me with a capital M. The Me that was strong and capable and bloody minded and able to withstand and stare down most things. A counsellor tells me that Me is still here, hidden maybe, or maybe in actual temporary hiding and that the dreadful things that are happening to me are simply too much, that poor old Me is being overwhelmed. The Me that is looking down into what Michael Rosen (an English writer, poet and children's author) calls a Pool of Glum.

To recap:

diagnosis early June, bladder cancer,

cystoscopy, confirmation of diagnosis,

tests and scans and pre op,

operation and biopsy under full anaesthetic,

chemotherapy, one dose,

CT scan with dye,

confusion and head scratching by medical fraternity, (I'll get back to that in a minute),

second cystoscopy

more head scratching,

decision on dates of 6 weeks' chemotherapy settled on, to start last Thursday,

dates of 6 weeks' chemotherapy cancelled.

It's now August.

Second operation and biopsy planned to happen within 4 weeks and the whole bloody rigmarole to start all over again. That is, if I'm lucky and the head scratching leads to a light bulb moment of "aha, so that's what it is". You see it's all the fault of Radiology who should have carried out the CT scan with dye BEFORE the operation, not AFTER. A new operation, more detailed and going deeper, might put an end to the head scratching and clear up the puzzle of what is actually going on.

Luckily, with the exception of a couple of rather offhand and detached Indian nurses, who were more concerned with the procedure they were carrying out than the patient they were treating, everyone is/was very helpful, kind and willing to answer my questions, of which I have many. I may not like the answers but, at least, I am heard. "Yes, not ideal, is it?" said my designated specialist urology nurse. Several times, in one conversation. No, not ideal. 

I would like to get back to blogging, purely as therapy. I've always liked writing. I could, of course, write it as a private diary, not publish here, but most of you have been nice and understanding over the years and there is, after all, no need to comment. There are one or two silly little people locally who might feel obliged to gossip (people who actually know me personally). Okay, feel free to do so, or maybe get a life?

A day later:

I had a letter today with the new dates for pre op and op: the operation is to be on Sept 18th, which is also the day for which I have tickets to travel to the Royal Shakespeare Company theatre in Stratford-upon-Avon for a performance of 'Pericles'. Would you call that 'adding insult to injury'? I would.

Shell Shocked

 that's me.

My doctor persuaded me to go see a urologist for a bit of a problem that I'd had for a while; nothing major, I thought. Just a bit of bleeding due to exercise and lugging heavy tubs. In fact, I was utterly convinced that it would be a wasted consultation. After all, I am actually feeling perfectly fine at the moment.

Nothing to do with the reason for my long absence from the blogosphere; I might as well tell you that that was due to me smashing my knee to bits last October, subsequently being unable to bend it and unable to move without great pain. Heavens above, knees are complicated mechanisms! Anyway, the knee is healing nicely and, although I still use a crutch out of doors, I can hobble about again and even sit at my computer for mid-length periods. 

Presenting myself at the hospital on Thursday I was feeling nervous. And scared of the procedure ahead of me. X rays and MRI scan done, I was taken to the examination room for a cystoscopy. The doctor was very efficient and before I could scrunch myself up into a ball of fear and trepidation the camera was in! For those of you facing this procedure in future: there is very little pain involved.

In any case, I soon forgot about pain and discomfort; the doctor was speaking. "Can you see the tumour?" I swear he sounded all excited about it. He swished the camera around and was all excited again about some red lines appearing on the screen. "Hm, yes," he said "that's unusual".

Once back on the chair he gave me an instant diagnosis: "you need to come in for a CT scan, a biopsy and an operation, all within the month. We'll get a better idea of what's wrong after the scan, but you appear to have a tumour on the inside of your bladder, probably due to previous radiotherapy treatment." I had treatment for endometrial cancer more than a decade ago. (Smokers beware: smoking is the other cause for bladder cancer!)

"If you agree, sign here and I will put you on the fast-track cancer list right now." Naturally, I signed. What else was I supposed to do?

Yesterday, Friday, was a very strange day for me. I got up very late, didn't get dressed until after one, had lunch mid-afternoon, ate lots of chocolates and jellies, read, scrolled the web, had a long daytime nap and watched TV. 

Today is a little less disjointed, I am still feeling shell shocked but my chocolate consumption has gone down. And I got dressed before coming downstairs! I took a stroll round the garden and closed my mind to the weeds. Weeds are what happens when nothing else does.

You might not believe this: I am also waiting for an operation on some skin cancer on the back of my head! BCC is a mild form of skin cancer, easily taken care of when you go early enough; I am dithering when to have it done, privately, because the NHS waiting time is about twelve months.

For the moment everything is on hold, Physiotherapy for my knee will stop after Monday, BCC operation will get pushed back and everything else will be arranged around whatever hospital appointments I am given. There are decisions to be made about practical matters and just-in-case plans must be finalised.

If you feel like wishing me luck, please do.

Happy Spring Holidays

Once every 33 years Ramadan, the Christian Holy Week and Passover fall in the same month. If the stars can do it, how wonderful if we, mankind, could let that be our inspiration to live in peace with each other. And yet we fight, there is bloodshed in many corners of the world.

War is the vilest thing in the world.

Men come together to kill each other,

they slaughter and maim tens of thousands

and then they say prayers of thanksgiving 

for having slaughtered so many people.

How does God* look down and listen to them?

Leo Tolstoy, 1828-1910

War And Peace, 1869

(*The God of your choice - my words)

The Japanese cherry tree is in bloom; if ever there was a sign of renewed hope it is that. I have been working on pots and tubs in the garden. Taking out compacted and overgrown herbaceous perennials, freeing them from thick mats of weeds, split them, then replacing the soil, adding fertiliser and water retentive material like vermiculite, perlite or garden compost. Only hardy perennials have gone back into the pots, anything tender will have to wait until mid May. Rarely, if ever, do I manage to wait that long; I usually start half way through April, hoping for the best; I have lost many a choice specimen due to my impatience.

I've been rather foolish, twice, in fact. I did some push ups (against a large chest of drawers, not the floor) and forgot to warm up first, another sign of my pig headed impatience. Naturally, I injured my shoulder. It's been hurting for weeks now. Wrestling with large pots and tubs and their contents hasn't helped either. Today my shoulder is even more painful and I am having serious words with myself about resting up. If only I listened. Tomorrow my son is coming for two nights and he will take me to my favourite plant nursery which means choosing plants rather than dealing with them.

Kind and Loving Hearts

 

Oh how I wish. But, if wishes were horses, beggars would ride. This beggar remains just that, a beggar. No horse. I scroll youtube a lot on rainy days like today and sometimes get stuck on those 'recognise yourself' sites which pretend to help you find deep insights into your psyche. "5 Signs You've Been Emotionally Neglected In Childhood". 

Okay, let's see. I said it was raining, so no chance of going out and doing something worthwhile.

Emotionally neglected in childhood, yes, that's me. All 5 signs present and correct. When I finished, my first thought was: "the poor blighters didn't have the first idea themselves. How would they have known how to be emotionally available?"

My next thought was: "Hm, did I pass that on, maybe? Is that why?" Maybe. But there is nothing I can do about it now. And there comes a time when we must grow up and take responsibility for our lives ourselves.

There is a reason for this long introduction.

A couple of times a months I meet with a group of people for German Conversation. Not long ago a lady rang our group and asked if she could bring her Dad to a meeting. She said he had been a soldier in the British Army in Germany and had learned to speak almost fluent German. She warned us that he was very forgetful now, but she hoped that people speaking German would trigger his knowledge of the language and stimulate him. Of course, we said, bring him along.

It turned out that he was far gone into dementia. Not only did he not understand what we were saying in German, it became quite obvious that even an English conversation was beyond him. His poor daughter was distraught. "Oh, we are having a bad day today", she kept saying. "You were so much brighter yesterday." Throughout, she was calm and caring, constantly addressing him, in English, making remarks, asking did he understand, did he remember, while we in the group did our best to include him and her, in English, but with no real sense of penetrating the fog in his head.

And that's where the Kind and Loving Heart came in. This lady was the warmest, most patient, most loving daughter I have ever seen, totally focussed on her Dad, sitting close to him, calming and comforting him the whole time. The most shocking thing was that she herself was seriously disabled, suffering from a debilitating and progressive disease which would inexorably lead to her complete disablement and early death. She was entirely dependant on crutches. At first I thought she might have broken a leg or something, but no, she smiled sweetly and almost apologised for her physical condition.

How many of us could bear this load? When I think how I complain now and have complained in the past about small and large misfortunes, I feel ashamed. 

New Hope

 
After a mild period where lots of brave little souls have pushed their first cautious heralds above ground we have now been promised another cold spell with night frosts. Ah well, we may all be looking forward to Spring here in the northern hemisphere but February and March are often the coldest months of the year around here. Still, aren't they pretty, my aconites and snowdrops?

The pure gold of aconites

Snowdrops to gladden the heart

I saw the GP about my night terrors. There is nothing much she can do, there are no easy medications which would see them off.  The subconscious will throw up all sorts of detritus from a long life which has most certainly had its shadows and dark sides, and still has. What she suggested I do is to see a counsellor if the terrors don't end. In the meantime, I am to calm my mind as much as possible before bed and try to discard anything, people, activities, thoughts, that endanger my equilibrium. 

She is quite right, of course, now, at the end of my years, I really do not need to accommodate the toxicity of unwanted intrusion by whatever, whomever, whenever. That includes people like Freda. I slowly came to understand over the last few weeks that people like Freda are bad for me and that I am under no obligation to put up with them.

I went to a very interesting lecture and slide show on compost the other night. Yes, you read that right, a lecture on compost! Those who have read my burblings for some years may remember that I love compost and am quite a whizz at producing quantities of the stuff which then, with the help of the handsome hulk, get spread inches deep on my flower beds, there to await worms and other crawlies to pull the brown and crumbly treasure into the soil beneath. 

However, this is not really what I wanted to say. The lecturer was a German who had been a physician in civilian life (pre garden lecturing) and owns an ancient farmhouse with land attached to it, which he has turned, over 35 years, into a splendid show garden and woodland. During a break I asked what he thought of the UK, the dreaded Brexit and the political turmoil of the last few years and was he ever tempted to return to Germany. He smiled very nicely and calmly explained that he lives on his land, tends his garden, enjoys his labours and pays little attention to the machinations of the great and not-so-good. He said : "I have my settled status, I have my garden, my hobbies and some good friends". 

In other words, he lives in a comfortable bubble and cares little for the ills the great and not-so-good visit upon us. I too have my settled status (it means we can stay in the UK after Brexit), my garden, my books, a few good friends, what more is there?  

And yet, I find it hard to turn my back on the world and ignore the state of it. Perhaps I must turn my attention more often back to my great love, poetry. Poetry to soothe the troubled spirit and calm the unhappy mind.

This short poem by the Welsh poet Edward Thomas conveys a message of optimism about the approach of Spring:

Over the land freckled with snow half-thawed

The speculating rooks at their nests cawed

And saw from elm-tops, delicate as flower of grass,

What we below could not see, Winter pass.

 

Night Terrors

I looked the term up, they are a thing. Maybe you knew? I didn't, until now.

"Night terrors are episodes of screaming, intense fear and flailing while still asleep. . . . . .Like sleepwalking, sleep terrors are considered a parasomnia — an undesired occurrence during sleep. A sleep terror episode usually lasts from seconds to a few minutes, but episodes may last longer. Causes are unknown but can be related to extreme tiredness, fever, stress or trauma." I am rarely extremely tired nowadays and haven't had a fever for years.

For several years I have had nightmares, long, unpleasant dreams, which leave me breathing hard, heart pumping, but remembering the dream. I am usually trying to escape from some danger. Night terrors are different. I appear to wake myself up with a scream or shout, sometimes a speech. Several times lately I have been violent, for instance thumping my elbow into my own pillow and once fighting with the bedside lamp, knocking it over.  I must have won that fight but my hand was bruised afterwards. Once I was half out of bed, one foot on the floor, fighting the bed clothes. One of these days I will find myself on the floor, with no idea how I got there.

I am the least violent person, I have actually been afraid of violence since childhood. I run away from people shouting at each other rather than towards them, my curiosity in such events is nil. I would say that emotional violence or aggression are not part of my nature either. I'd rather avoid any such turmoil.

I have booked an appointment with my GP. I'll come back and tell you what she said. Am I going mad? Is it dementia? Or is it stress?

Now for something entirely different, or maybe not.

Let's invent a couple, let's call them Fred and Freda. You've got to know them better during the last two plus years, you have spoken on the phone more often and you have actually seen more of them during visits which have lasted from between two to three days. You've tried your best but have realised that you simply don't like Freda. You consider her to be a bossy, manipulating bully who is trying to bully you as she bullies her family. For Fred's sake you have put up with her, mostly walking on eggshells, keeping quiet. Obviously, you have not allowed her to bully you, which makes her stomp off in a huff.

You like Fred although you can see that he is very much under Freda's thumb. There are other circumstances which make the relationship tricky. But although you are sometimes offended by their actions you put up with them, again, keeping quiet. You'd like to remain on reasonably good terms with Fred.

WTF are you going to do? Did I mention stress earlier? The night terrors may have nothing to do with this relationship but the time line is similar. Coincidence? Possibly.

 

yyyyyyyyyyyyyy

What to do?

I've been struggling, the black dog came down for a visit and, as always when that happens, I felt unable to blog. You all appear so positive, upbeat, competent, even-minded in the posts I read that it's almost embarrassing to admit to my failings. I blame Covid and the solitude caused by Covid.

I've been having poor sleep as well, many hours of wakefulness when the thought carousel whirls and twirls; in the end I give up and go downstairs to the warm kitchen, pour a glass of sherry, have some crackers, read a bit and am shocked when I realise that it's almost morning and sleep has once again been unattainable. Naturally, that leaves me even more depressed and tired.

Last night was a bit better. What a difference a few hours of sleep makes. 

I wrote the above very late on Sunday evening, still feeling a tad sorry for myself but having sent the black dog into kennels for a while. 

So, what to do indeed.

First of all, when I got up, even before making breakfast, I rooted around in the music cabinet ( no longer holding sheet music since Beloved died) for some mood changers. In the olden days, when we still listened to radios back in the old country, Mum always had Sunday morning concerts on. So music was the first go-to, some CDs from the classical collections, a Beethoven symphony (Pastoral) on full volume. Music is magic, Beethoven helped right away. Toasted sweet fruit bread, tea, a sliver of well aged cheese, marmalade, and my inner woman was quieted. Roasted duck breast (a repetition of Christmas dinner) and a tasty lentils mess for a late lunch, followed by a long phone call with my son, both of us opening up about aspects of our lives which are not entirely pleasing, helped things along nicely. 

A walk in the garden next; looking closely with open eyes, I found a few welcome friends, much too early some of them. In spite of a mostly grey day I was cheered by aconites and hellebores in the woodland garden,

and snowdrops everywhere else, carpets of them. Ditto cyclamen.

I've taken and posted so many pictures of all three of them in the past I don't want to bore readers of this blog by posting yet more.

In the evening I finished off Frederik Backman's "My Grandmother Sends Her Regards and...." . I have enjoyed his humorous yet slightly bizarre writing (if you've read "A Man Called Ove" you'll know what I mean: depth and comedy at the same time. Backman is definitely one of my recently discovered favourites for a rainy afternoon.

A couple of documentaries on the BBC came next: the delightful and evocative "Wonders of the Celtic Deep". about animals and birds (are birds animals? Hm, yes, they must be) on the Pembrokeshire coast of Wales, the nearest stretch of ocean to Shropshire, and then, deeply disturbing, the beginning of a Paul Theroux series called Forbidden America about the impact of social media on US society; he begins the series by meeting the new online influencers of the far right. As faaaar right as can be, deeply frightening, in fact. Normally, I avoid such programmes. A pity that I should end the day on such a distressing topic. Maybe not the best idea after a few weeks of the black dog.

However, he has stayed away today too in spite of the scaffolding having gone up next door. No doubt I'll be woken by the noise of metal on metal tomorrow morning.

The Blackout That Wasn’t.

 Picture a perfectly normal evening, supper, a bit of telly, a book. No alcohol. Bed at a normal hour, between 11 and 12, lights out and snuggle in. By 1.30 am I knew I wasn’t going to get to sleep without help so I got up and found a couple of sleeping pills. “Best go for a pee”, I thought then, "otherwise I might have to get up again before long".

That was my last conscious thought.

Next morning I woke up normally, got up, went downstairs, and proceeded with what I do regularly every morning before going back upstairs to make my bed.

“That’s funny,” I thought, "crumbs in the bed?”

a) I don’t eat in bed, and

b) when would I have eaten what I don’t eat in bed?

My eye caught the bedside table, where I saw a tin of stale crackers and an empty sherry glass. Eh? How did they get there? 

There have been occasions when I’d go downstairs during a sleepless night and have exactly that, some crackers and a small glass of sherry.  But downstairs in the warm kitchen, not upstairs in bed.

NOT upstairs in bed. So when did they get there? And how?

Answer came there none, no matter how hard I tried to recall the events of the previous night. Nothing, an absolute blank. Not even a partial recollection. A complete blackout.

For the next few days I puzzled and puzzled, even going so far as thinking of a TIA (mildish transient stroke) or some such. I didn’t seem to have any further symptoms apart from being just a touch worried. Lately I have been having lots of headaches, a bit of pain here and there, more and longer lasting bouts of depression than I like. But nothing I am not used to.

I decided to consult my GP, by phone. Initially, all consultations are currently by phone. My GP heard me out, asked a few additional questions and came up with an instant diagnosis. 

"It’s the sleeping pills”, he said. “ you took two when you normally take only one. Besides, these particular ones (Zopiclone), nasty things they are. I personally don’t like to prescribe them”.  He hadn’t, it was another practice doctor. “Don’t worry,” he added, “there is no cause for alarm, I don’t even need to see you. Had I taken two sleeping pills I might have lost a few hours myself.”

I am glad he was so certain, I had indeed been worried for several days, feeling uneasy. But doesn’t that beg all sorts of questions? 

Why prescribe dangerous medication? I might have fallen down the stairs during my nightly wanderings. An episode like that is frightening, how can he be so certain that nothing more untoward had happened? How do I find out that he is right, take another two pills some other night and see (or rather not see) what happens?

Any ideas?

One very good reason to be cheerful

 or maybe several, at that.

Not the flood, naturally; that’s more or less what is expected in January, although it’s never welcome. There is a very minor river under all that water, I’ve posted many pictures of it over the years and periodically mentioned poor neighbours who regularly have to sweep mud and slime from their cottages. Today and yesterday we’ve been inundated with snow and ice on top of the floods and I’ve not wanted to risk going out.

Enough of the weather; I’ve learned a lesson on a totally unrelated matter, i.e., decision making is good for you. Very good. Coming to terms with, and accepting what one cannot change, is good too but I have already more or less learned that lesson in the past.

Let me tell you a story. I have new neighbours, well, newish neighbours; they moved in three years ago. Since then they have been renovating, knocking down and rebuilding, their very ancient cottage, parts of it dating back to the 14th century, and I am sure it’s quite beautiful inside. They aren’t very neighbourly in many ways, friendly enough when you meet them but not given to joining village life. That’s entirely up to them, of course.

Although our houses are a good distance away from each other we have a common boundary, consisting of partly fencing, hedging, an ancient stone wall and several red brick walls and the back of a falling down barn. 

“We need to start on the barn now,” said they one afternoon. There they stood in my garden, looking at the back of the barn. I agreed, the barn is in very poor repair. They weren’t actually asking permission, just telling me that they would need access from my side. Well, naturally, I thought, a week or two of disruption, but one has to be agreeable to neighbours in need.

A letter from the planning office arrived, as required by law, giving a website with details of my neighbours’ plans. Quite idly, with absolutely no malice intended, I checked the website, and found that they are not only planning to repair the wall but rebuild the barn and create a bijou residence with workshop, storage space and parking area combined. A sizeable undertaking indeed, nothing like the plan they had informed me of.

I rang them, she answered the phone and I could tell she was quite taken aback that I had taken the trouble to access the project website and wasn’t altogether pleased with their plans. She instantly shouted down the phone at me.

“You must have a very selective memory then,” she said, “ we told you that we wanted to repair the barn." Nobody shouts at me without retaliation. I did, however, stay polite.

The next day he came over and rang the bell. “I am not going to argue with you”, he said, “we are awaiting planning permission for the project as it is detailed in the application. Oh yes, and our builder says he needs to erect scaffolding on your land.” I was floored. Suddenly, I felt very old and very alone and very helpless. They were going to bully me into giving permission to use my land for their purposes, God knows for how long. I needed to gain time to think. “I need to understand exactly what is involved, bring your builder over to explain it to me,” I said.

Several days later the builder arrived; I was a nervous wreck by now, literally feeling ill and dizzy and unable to sleep.

A jovial type of chap, the builder was calm and friendly. I am sure he told me more than my neighbour liked. He showed me exactly how much scaffolding there would be, the tarpaulin that would have to cover it, the plants that would have to ‘be bent over’ or removed and how long he foresaw the work would last. “Three months minimum”, he said, “depending on what we find when we get started.” Have you ever known any builder who kept to his timeline? I haven’t.

I was almost shaking with nerves but said nothing more while I watched them move off. Having finally rediscovered the pleasure gardening gives me, after many years of neglect, my heart was sore at the thought of losing yet another year. When I mentioned it to him, all he could say was :” with all due respect, if you like gardening so much, haven’t you got all this other space to do it?”, waving his arm in the general direction of the back of the house. 

I hate it when somebody says “with all due respect”, it implies no respect at all; it’s what politicians say in interviews just before they become really rude. I was furious but still couldn’t find the courage to send neighbour packing.

For weeks I felt worse and worse, my blood pressure shot up, the dizzy spells accelerated, I dreamt horrible dreams every night, woke often, ever more tense. I am not exaggerating, I felt so awful I rang the surgery. 

And then, one weekend, I had enough. After agonising for weeks I finally recovered my backbone. I wrote a letter, telling them that there will be no scaffolding erected on my land, that I will give permission for any work needed to be done to the backwall, and only the backwall, from my side, that I am willing to put up with a builder or two and their ladders for as long as this work takes, but, and it’s a big but, that the rest of their renovation and rebuilding project is absolutely not my concern. Several times during our negotiations neighbour and builder assured me that the wall would be repaired from inside the barn; from which I understand that surely it is the main body of work which requires scaffolding, not the backwall. 

I haven’t heard a word since then. I am determined to stick to my guns. ‘With all due respect’ indeed.

Going back to decision making and how it’s good for you: from the moment I dropped that letter through their letterbox I’ve gradually felt better, my blood pressure is now back to normal, I sleep again, and the tense muscles in my back are relaxing.

Living through the Pandemic

Everything arrives at my front door, heavies like sacks of bird feed, garden supplies like grit, potting compost, horticultural sand, fertilisers; not so heavies like groceries for me and friends who cannot get their own delivery service going, small parcels, large parcels, desperately needed parcels as well as a few - a very few - treats. None of the delivery men/women ring the door bell, apart from the groceries everything is left either on the doorstep or on the bench in the ever open shed door.

No problem, as the front door is totally secure; the only time I get cross is when there are parcels of plants left withering in the sun. They are usually baby seedlings, hardly able to survive without instant attention.

Deliveries have taken off in a huge way, this business is one of the few profitable ones. I always say a heartfelt thank you when I catch the drivers, for making my life easier. All those essential services I didn’t even think about before the pandemic, suddenly assume giant proportions.

In spite of existing restrictions I am still relatively contented. I am not even keen on going back to the local café; a friend rang to invite me to meet there but I turned her down. The German Conversation group has invited itself to a meeting at my house; I have insisted that we can only meet in the garden, not indoors. If it rains, well, then I hope they bring brollies! Or have the sense not to turn up. The more I read about the long term after-effects of Covid-19, not to mention the severity of the illness for oldies with pre-existing health issues, the less I feel tempted to socialise on any but the smallest scale. Just think how much wiping and disinfecting I’d have to do before and after the event!

Having said that, I do go and see, or welcome, a friend or two at a time. Yesterday we had coffee in Wendy’s garden, three of us sitting and nattering for two hours solid. Politics, gardening, music, the meagre repeat fare available on TV, gossip about all the silly people who ignore Covid19 rules - we had a lovely time, hardly wanting to stop.

I am more careful about restrictions than is laid down at the moment. We are governed by such an incompetent bunch of liars and morons it is as well to make up one's own mind about staying safe. The science says that a second wave of infections is more than likely during the coming winter, at the same time as the flu season arrives.

My son came for two days earlier in the week, “for a working visit”. And work he did. I was amazed at how he got through the tasks, never imagining that he would indeed see off such jobs as taking eight huge builders’ bags of green waste, several heavy windows, half the junk in the garage, a broken down bird table on legs and a dozen or more large plastic bags of weeds, collected over the whole of the spring, to the dump. It took six separate trips! I had spent weeks worrying how I was going to get rid of the stuff. A very useful chap to have around, I am glad to say.

Gardening is still my main occupation, WW and HH have both come up trumps and, although they certainly don’t give their services for free, they are getting through all those long neglected jobs, allowing me to realise that I am catching up with myself. I have almost reached the stage where I can finally relax and think about replanting.

More of that anon. Paul has done me a favour by dumping me.

Not a Happy Bunny

It had to happen eventually, working like a madwoman in the garden had to lead to some injury or other. It did. Excessive sawing and secateuring at an ancient rosemary bush’s thick and convoluted stems did for my right hand. The bush grows in a raised bed along the wall with my neighbours, all the while I was sawing away I was cursing and telling the bush to "come on”, “give already”; two thirds of the way through I yelped in pain, either my tools were too blunt or my hand just doesn’t have the strength it once did, suddenly my wrist and thumb were on fire and I had to give up. I heard my neighbour potter in her own grounds, but she forbore to get involved, for which I was immensely grateful.

I am really hard at it, at least, I was; luckily we are having a few rain showers and I can’t do much outside anyway today, something else for which I am immensely grateful. There is something obsessive about my need to work outside. Paul has another ailment which stops him working and I’m doing it all myself, turning heavy compost, mulching, pruning, weeding, lugging heavy bags and mountains of brush to be taken to the dump eventually, if I’m lucky and get help; otherwise I’ll have to hire a skip, which is expensive. The thing is that without help I simply cannot cope any more; I have a big birthday coming up which means that I am going to be less and less able physically. Already I am surprised at how tired I often feel. I was thinking of telling my doctor about that but then I know what she would say: “you are not in the first flush of youth, what do you expect?” It’s true, I am stupidly unwilling to let age stop me and sit back on my haunches and retire to the old ladies’ corner gracefully.

The fact remains, if I can’t find regular and capable help, I must give up the house and garden and move to somewhere more suitable. The idea appals me, I love my house sitting in what used to be the centre of a beautiful garden in a magnificent location. I have been just so fortunate. No doubt I’d have no trouble selling up but where could I go? Nearer to my son? That would be sensible but it also means giving up. I could try and hire a company to make my garden less labour intensive, swapping large flower beds for hard landscaping. Whatever I decide to do needs careful deliberation. The one thing I feel unable to do is letting it all go to rack and ruin, closing my eyes to it.

I really feel like moaning today. I can just about type with the index finger of my right hand so I’ll continue. This damned virus doesn’t seem to realise that it’s not wanted and the numbers in the UK are still frighteningly high. I think I am actually now afraid of getting back into the world; I have the most troublesome dreams when I manage to sleep at all, often to do with overcoming huge barriers to getting home. Last night I lost track of my friend who was dependant on me to get her to the station; I kept ending up on the wrong platform and in the wrong station myself and never connected with her at all.

Depression is setting in, life is far too complicated. Although I have happily withdrawn from the burden of normal demands for the past twelve weeks, the thought of remaining entirely on my own for months yet is traumatic. No wonder my nights are disturbed. I dreamt of my daughter the other night, begging for help with something. In my dream she laughed and vanished.

The only good thing is that it’s summer, the days are long and bright and I welcome the odd rainy day. The earth was so dry that I could hardly get a fork in and the birds found it difficult to peck for worms and seeds. Nature helps too, apparently the air in cities has cleared, pollution is diminished and wildlife is taking over the spaces vacated by man. If only we could learn from this and allow nature its rightful place again. What will we take away from this catastrophe? Will we allow our Earth to recover or simply carry on where we left off when it’s all over?

One last thought, a good one: I have prepared a Mediterranean vegetable mess with garlic and chalots and a slice of my delicious meat loaf to go with Singaporean noodles for my dinner tonight. If nothing else brings pleasure, perhaps a pleasant meal makes for a welcome change. Cheers!

Afternoon all,

how are you doing? Getting a bit fed up? A bit bored with your own company? I am. Not madly depressed or sad, just a bit bored. Mind you, would I be any better off if I had a family now, maybe a few brothers and sisters, an aunt or uncle tucked away somewhere? Kids closer by, kids that actually liked me enough to want to live close by? Who knows. But then I was the one who moved far away from everybody.

A time like this concentrates the mind, come the rainy day and there’s not much else but dandelions around - it’s dandelion time in the garden and the hedgerows and verges - and all the family you’ve ever had is either dead or they’ve forgotten about you and live a life that's neither more nor less happy and contented than the life you yourself live. Once I had a lovely aunt, she’s the one I remember with affection; she was poor, with a husband who cut hair for a living in a tiny rural hamlet. Not much money to be made there. Auntie loved life, laughed a lot, celebrated every birthday, every occasion that lent itself to celebration and some that didn’t, and always had a plate of Dutch cheese open sandwiches ready to share. Auntie is long gone, I wonder what she would have made of it all now? Laughed, raised her shoulders 'what do I know’, and said, "it is what it is”. I know what Mum’s sister, my other auntie, would have done. She was the one much given to bursting into tears at the least opportunity, everything that ever happened was chosen by ill fate and aimed directly at her. Both of them are dead now but I know which one I’d rather sit with round the kitchen table.

They are all gone now, Mum and Dad, the aunties and uncles, even some of the cousins, not that I ever had many. Two kids max. per household was the going rate in the family, at least the side of the family I knew. And some only had the one, like my Mum and Dad. All of that generation had a hard time of it, two world wars, hungry childhoods and not much prosperity until much later when things generally got better. But they never experienced a pandemic, Spanish flu, avian, swine, HIV/aids, sars, mers, all scourges of the last 100 years, passed them by. Would they have borne them as stoically as they lived through their own times?

I miss them and, most of all, I miss Beloved. Not that I would want him as he was at the end, but the way he was when we sat opposite each other in the kitchen, when one of us would ask a question and so a conversation would start about a wide range of subjects, subjects which would need exploring in detail, whether we knew the answer or not.

I miss the old people and I miss Beloved. Often now my thoughts turn to the past and I want to ask what they think about this and that, do they have any advice to give or do they know as little as I do. The latter probably, but it would be good to find out.

Just Saying . . . .

I made a disappointing discovery: one of my friends, someone I was not only fond of but admired greatly, has turned out to have feet of Covid19 clay. Supposedly, we are all in this together, but some of us are further out on the periphery than others, able to dip in and out at leisure. Looking around me I have judged that this one or that one would maybe not stay the course, crack under the strain of isolation, break the rules and get out from under without considering the consequences. In some cases I was right. But this particular friend I judged to have excellent self control, determination and staying power, yet this is the one to break the rules in the most spectacular fashion.

We are all only human, we all make mistakes, we are all getting fed up and nobody wants the situation to go on for longer than it needs to. But to flout the rules deliberately and claim special status for reasons of personal convenience is just despicable and highly irresponsible.

Maybe that friendship has run its course.

We have to pretend, said Old, we have to pretend about so much these days. We have to pretend to like things we don’t like. We have to try so very hard to be non-judgemental.
The Dept. of Sensitive Crimes by Alexander McCall Smith

Instead of sitting in judgement and feeling disappointed I should just continue to do what I’m doing, get into the garden more or less every day for at least two hours. The longer and harder I work the less attractive the beds are. More and more naked earth appears. I used to accuse Beloved of pursuing a ‘bare earth policy’,  he was keen to strip the beds back to basics and proclaim lots of my favoured plants to be weeds that needed clearing when we first came here. Now it’s me who does that. I have ordered a few pots of herbaceous perennials and some colourful annuals to close the biggest gaps once I get to replanting.  Luckily, the garden has a respectable 'bone structure' in the form of shrubs and trees. Spring flowering clematis like the one in the picture help too. Paul is coming tomorrow, I hope that together we will knock a few more weedy problems on the head.

Last night the outer scab came off my lip, quite naturally. The inner scab came off a few days earlier, the inner scar healed very quickly, I am glad to say. No infection anywhere. There is a small visible scar and a small patch of scab left, but nothing to spoil my beauty. I’m relieved.

Glück im Unglück (A Blessing in Disguise)

Oops, there she goes, falling like a sack of potatoes, spilling herself all over the stairs.

After a day spent largely in the garden, evening came with its normal quota of tiredness. Happy and contented tiredness. Eleven at night and time for bed. Had I shut the shed and garage? Better check. Yes, all safe and sound, no need to worry. Locking the inner door to the shed was the last thing to do before climbing the stairs. I hadn’t bothered to take off my thick-soled, non-slip trainers; that was my downfall. Literally. Turning on my toes my right foot refused to move, my left foot was in too much of a hurry, stumbled over the right and there you have it, I shot forward, unable to brake and came to rest on the stairs, my chin hitting the step with an enormous crack. Instantly blood came gushing out, with me in serious pain.

Eleven o’clock at night, on your own, is not a good time for an accident of that nature. In the mirror I saw that my own teeth had cut my lower lip from inside to out. I googled “how to stop bleeding of the face and mouth”. Ice packs should do it in twenty minutes, Google said. Three ice packs later I was still bleeding. It was two am by now. I decided to ring 111 for advice, the service for non-emergency help. Initially I spoke to someone non medical, after a whole raft of questions they referred me to a nurse, who actually rang back a little later. Another raft of questions which I answered honestly, without making too much of a meal of it. All I wanted was advice on how to stop the bleeding. Halfway through the call the nurse said  ”the ambulance is on its way, you shouldn’t have to wait too long.” What? Hospital During The Time of Covid 19? Not bloody likely! I’d rather bleed to death in the comfort of my own home!

Anyway, the ambulance did indeed turn up fairly soon. The paramedics weren’t even inside the house yet when I informed them that they had had a wasted journey, the bleeding was lessening and under no circumstances was I going to hospital with them. “There there,” they said, "first let’s have a look at you.” They did what they called ‘obs’, (my blood pressure was off my personal scale) wrote it all down, both of them sitting on the floor, operating their various machinery, attempting to calm me down. We actually had quite a pleasant chat.

By about three am the bleeding had most certainly lessened. Finally, the paramedics agreed that there was no immediate need for me to go into any hospital; instead they advised me to visit the local minor injuries unit the next day. I didn’t even do that. I’d rather spend the rest of my life with a deep scar on my lip than contract the virus and have no life left.

Before they left they admitted that I was doing the right thing. “To be honest”, the female paramedic said, “before now, we have taken people to hospital for different reasons, without a fever, and the same people have come out with a high temperature.”

Today, two evenings on, I have recovered somewhat from both the accident and the shock. Yesterday I spent the whole day dozing, taking painkillers, not even getting dressed. Today, I am feeling much better, I did a bit of gardening with Paul, and tried to eat on one side of my mouth. But the fat blue lip has already gone down, there is a bloody scab closing the wound, and I am hoping that there will be no inflammation. I might ring my surgery doctor for some advice on how best to avoid that.

Wish me luck.

Just Thinking . . .

strange though it may seem to you, there is something liberating about being in lockdown. “I’m loving it,” says Jay who rarely stays at home at any other time. “It’s amazing" says Sally, who can hardly ever be reached because she is literally always attending some local group meeting. "I’ve got clean kitchen cupboards,” she marvels.  Pauline says she’s gone through her wardrobe and chests of drawers, finally sorting out items she’ll never wear again. “I’m getting bored and would love to see a friend for a meal”, Pauline adds, “but I’ve got plenty to do anyway.” Mary enjoys her solitary walks and the freedom to watch hours of opera streamed by the NY Met and the London ROH.

All the daily tasks that normally make me feel guilty for neglecting have disappeared off my radar. Many times I have told myself ‘it doesn’t matter, nothing matters very much except to stay safe, stay well, stay in touch, stay hopeful.

Soon we’ll all know the natural colour of our hair, mousy for the younger ones, grey for the older. I can lick the long hairs in the corners of my mouth,  time to get the magnifying mirror out and pluck.

There’s nothing any of us can do to fix this. We worry about ourselves, our family, friends and neighbours. We are anxious and stressed, sleep is disrupted, we dream fearsome dreams. What we can do is start to control how we act. I cannot stop the worldwide spread of Covid-19 but I can control how I react to it in my own small world, in my mind. There is freedom in that. I can choose to eat healthily, take my allowed exercise, stay away from the relentless news bulletins, particularly before bed.

I can decide to concentrate on the lighter side: I choose books, movies, documentaries which make me laugh or entertain me. I choose to listen to music whenever I feel like it. I enjoy a glass of wine, but not to excess. I don’t overeat.  I choose to resurrect my diary, write down my thoughts, focusing on the upside of my current routine, what I can do rather than what I can’t.

I keep in touch with people, my son and I have a phone conversation once a week now, before lockdown we spoke maybe once a month. I’ve tried to renew contact with my daughter by sending her an email inviting her to forget and forgive, on both sides. She didn’t react. I can control my action towards her, I cannot control her reaction; what I cannot change I must accept. And move on. Lots of friends call, even those I hardly ever meet. I am happy to contact them in return.

I try to keep active. For nearly five years I have felt bored with gardening. Looking after Beloved, then mourning him, took all my attention. Now my interest is back, gardening has become a pleasure again, I go out whenever the weather is nice enough and I get dirty, arse over elbow, digging and dividing, weeding and pruning. All the nurseries are closed, plants cannot be had easily; instead of replanting and restocking I am busy trying to eradicate pernicious, perennial weeds, like ground elder and celandines, which have colonised whole beds during the years of neglect.. Large empty patches don’t matter, nobody is going to see them and when the nurseries reopen I may have cleaned up the beds enough to replant.

Above all, I try to keep positive, a wholly new departure for me. I allow myself to do only what gives pleasure, everything else I ignore. The day will come - I hope - when the luxury of feeling guilty returns, it doesn’t matter now. For now, nothing matters.

Brace Yourselves,

there’s worse to come, Apparently.

Everything is dead, there is no life in Valley’s End at all, except for the volunteers who help those forced to stay at home. I hardly even see or hear any dog walkers in the castle grounds. I went to the surgery yesterday morning for a blood test and a consultation with the practice nurse. I saw one cyclist and one car, no other pedestrians, for the 20 minutes it took me to get there. All doors to the surgery were closed, I had to ring a brand new bell to be allowed in. A receptionist came to the door, told me to use the hand gel and wait in the empty waiting room. I was assured that there would be nobody else waiting at the same time. The nurse soon called me in, she stayed at the farther end of the consulting room and I stopped by the door while we talked. She had to come close to take my blood but we instantly moved apart again when she had finished.

It seems I have both COPD and asthma. Both recently diagnosed and only now confirmed. What a time to choose to develop lung disease! New medication works, I can breathe without wheezing.

I had a few general questions for Nurse Marian about Marzena, my cleaner, and Paul, the gardener. Would I be allowed to have them still? Both need the income. Provided we all keep a 2 m distance,  wash our hands, or even better, for me to stay in a different room from Marzena and away from Paul in the garden, there should be no problem. Both are sensible people and want to risk neither their own health nor mine.

I also had a more serious question for Marian. If I caught the virus, what were my chances? Would I die? She looked me in the eye and said, instantly, without hesitation and a dead straight face: “Yes”.
That’s telling me in no uncertain terms!

I suppose I am one of the lucky ones; I may be alone without family near, able or willing to help, but I have friends with whom I am in touch. We all keep an eye on each other. I am also resourceful; I live in a house with a good private outdoor space rather than an apartment block. I am quite able to look after myself and never need anyone to entertain me. The only family member moved to ring me without prompting was my former son-in-law, even my own son needed a reminder. He apologised for the lapse. Another bit of luck is that I am apparently on my supermarket’s list of vulnerable customers. How I got there is anybody’s guess. However, that means that they offer me a regular weekly delivery slot. There’s no guarantee that I get everything I order online, but they usually find an acceptable alternative. I even have a sufficient supply of toilet paper! Not having to stand in a queue is a huge weight off my shoulders.

There’s much worse to come, this whole misery is to last for a long time yet. we are told that the peak of the epidemic in the UK will not be reached for another two to three weeks. Even that is no more than a guesstimate, of course. How anybody can think - and say - that things will be back to normal by Easter (Hey there, Mr Trump) in a country which has barely begun it’s COVID 19 journey buggers belief.

I repeat my mantra from the previous post: Take care, look after yourselves and your loved ones and Good Luck to all of us.

Lockdown

I’ve been wondering if blogging is still appropriate in these uncertain times but, maybe now more than ever, we need to keep in touch with others ? And as we are no longer free to meet up in person, whether family, friends or neighbours, digital contacts are becoming more and more important? In good times we consider each other friends here in blogland, how much more need do we have of a friendly comment in fearful times. That’s what I think, anyway, and if you are still around, maybe you do too.

Although Valley’s End has no cases of coronavirus yet it is coming closer and closer and, no doubt, our tiny backwater will sooner or later fall prey. The village is preparing itself, the Good Neighbours group is recruiting under 70s to help with shopping, picking up prescriptions and keeping an eye on the vulnerable by phone. Over 70s are urged to avoid all social contact, stay at home except for walks in our beautiful countryside and, if meeting other walkers, to stand well away during chats. Naturally, stop and chat we will, a friendly place like ours prides itself on its networks of social interactions. Sadly, only at a distance now. Friends and acquaintances ring each other up - I’ve never had so many phone calls! - which helps a lot. Nobody must feel lost and forgotten and lacking assistance.

Personally I have been in isolation for a couple of weeks already, only Paul and the cleaner come. I still go to the village corner shop while we are free of the disease. The supermarket delivers to my door, as does the butcher. I read, garden a bit (it’s still rather chilly for longer hours outside), watch TV and DVDs,  go for solitary walks and speak to people on the phone. I have started to cook proper meals again too. Yesterday, for the first time in ages, I cooked meat and potatoes and vegetables. I even had gravy! I ate it at the kitchen table, poured myself a glass of wine to go with it and enjoyed the food like I haven’t ever enjoyed my quickly thrown together, cooked from frozen, dishes. My regime is not really all that different from ordinary days and still quite bearable. I have relaxed my routine, get up later and go to bed later, often reading into the night. I find that exercise is very important, sometimes, on a really lazy day, when I’ve not been outside at all, by bedtime my bottom and back hurt from all the sitting and I stagger up the stairs like a very old woman.

Now that we have passed the vernal equinox the days are longer than the nights and we welcome the warmer months. It should help with staying positive.

What really makes me very angry are people who say : “Well, if I get it, I get it.” People who take no notice of others’ vulnerability, who continue to go out and about without having a valid reason, who congregate in large groups. People who party regardless. I want to say to them : “It’s not about you, I don’t care if you get it, I don’t care how ill you get, I care about the people you infect, who might be somebody’s loved one, the valuable hospital space you take up, the health workers you might infect. Stopping the spread of the disease, that’s what's important, not your personal convenience.

So, dear friends, take care of yourselves and your loved ones and good luck to all of us. Back soon.

The Dreaded Plague and a Very Expensive Haircut

First it was Brexit, then the floods and now Coronavirus.
The various news media have all been obsessed with just one subject at a time and there’s no getting away from it.

I have started to look at my friends with a very gimlet eye and those that I know to be of the hither-and-thither-shuffling persuasion I will not see much of while this whole virus business is going on. I have no problem with people who travel, use distance public transport and have a hectic social life at any other time, but not now. Over 70s are encouraged to remain relatively stationary and as most of us don’t go out to work, a few weeks of fixed aboding shouldn’t be too onerous. I have some extra provisions in, plenty of books, a garden for pottering, birds to watch, music to listen to, fellow bloggers to interact with, and locals whom I can see when the need moves me. I am on steroids for asthma and therefore have a weakened immune system. Deliberately exposing myself to catching the virus would be silly. It’ll be unlucky enough to catch it involuntarily.

So this is me for a bit.


I went for a haircut the other day, a regular 5-weekly event which takes a fairly small outlay and a car journey of no more than 30 minutes total there and back. It was one of the cold and wet specials England goes in for with abundant gusto and I was looking forward to getting back beside the Aga. It’s a very narrow, winding country road which makes it difficult to go fast and I was taking my time, a typically rolling English road made by the rolling English drunkard. Almost back in Valley’s End the disaster happened. I hit a deep pothole, filled with water and therefore invisible, and first the front tyre, then the back tyre, burst. It was an explosive sound and I was momentarily thrown and quite scared. Once I collected my wits I knew I couldn’t stay where I was, anyone coming round the bend would have hit me, so I limped the car a few hundred meters, very slowly, leaning on its right side, until I could safely pull it off the lane. It’s never a bad idea to be close to your particular mechanic, ever since we moved here we’ve used the same chap and it only took him 10 minutes to come and rescue me. He drove me home, then picked up the car. He was back before evening, all four tyres present and correct.

Insurance companies don’t cover pothole damage. This is deemed to be an ‘at-fault’ claim. So, as well as paying an excess, you could lose some of your no-claims bonus, and risk higher premiums in future.

I was interested in the etymology of ‘pothole’  : a depression or hollow in a road surface caused by wear or subsidence. From dialectal pot (“pit, hollow, cavity”) +‎ hole in Middle English.

Some say potholes are so called because of the potters who dug up chunks of clay from the Roman Empire's smooth roadways, more than 3,000 years ago. That explanation is more romantic but possibly less likely than the ordinary etymological one.