Happiness Factor? It’s a joke, right?

So there I was, aiming for human interaction resulting in happiness, or at least a semblance of contentment.

Fat chance.

Not that it was all bad. A friend and I went off to see a modern re-imagining of John Gay’s 1728 work "The Beggar's Opera" by Mid Wales Opera Company, a production for small spaces and therefore very intimate. Renamed “Mrs. Peachum’s Guide to Love And Marriage” it is a splendidly bawdy, ballsy take on relationships and the relative virtues of virginity. We enjoyed it and, what’s more, my friend and I didn’t fall out in spite of getting into politics.

Another event was a Spanish Evening set up by a local group. There was tapas, Spanish wine, some haphazard music and three short, separate, talks about the painter Joaquin Sorolla, Spanish food and how the speaker liked to cook it and wine talk. The wine talk was the only professional talk, which means that the whole hall could hear that speaker. The other two never remembered to speak into the microphone, in spite of an audience member begging them to do so. What made it worse for me was that I had chosen to sit at a table towards the back of the hall (ready to scarper?) just in front of the wine table where the volunteer wine server chose to use the time of the talks to rearrange his crates of bottles, picking up each bottle, checking it for dregs and plonking it back into its hole in the crate. He took absolutely no notice of my anguished looks in his direction and clinked on busily. Not the most enjoyable evening all told.

You can simply not rely on people to do as they say. I took a very wheezy chest to my doctor; yes, he examined me, asked a few questions and came up with the idea that my childhood asthma might have returned. And yes, he was going to investigate and consult another doctor. "So, should I make another appointment,” I asked. “O no, I’ll ring you later this afternoon.” That was two weeks ago. Not a peep out of the surgery since then.

Gadgets aren’t a whole lot more reliable, either. The whole area had a power cut. When the power came back on after several hours I mentally congratulated the electricity firm and settled down for a cosy evening. By and by the room cooled down, quite considerably by the time I bestirred myself to check on the boiler. One very dead boiler. This was Friday evening of the coldest weekend this year with frost and freezing fog forecast. I fiddled around and tried to relight it but it just grumbled and coughed at me. I spent some time online trying to find the nearest engineer but gave up and rang the manufacturer's company itself - Worcester-Bosch - who are many miles away but have always seen me right in the past. Many miles away also means an expensive call-out, of course. “Yes, we’ll come, On Monday.” Between Friday evening and Monday morning I wore thermal layers, several pairs of thick socks, my pyjamas under trousers and jumpers - who is going to undress completely in a freezing cold bathroom? - , carried around two small fires, and forgot about personal cleanliness entirely. What on Earth do people do who do not have immediate access to the wherewithal necessary to pay for an emergency like this? I had ice flowers on the windows, for heaven’s sake. The female engineer discovered that the power cut had blown the circuit board. She replaced it, serviced the boiler and made sure that all was back in order before she left.

Next stop a major building job. I had my windows on the South side of the house replaced, all eight of them. I was pleasantly surprised by the result. Beloved would have been livid, several years before we debated if we should swap wooden windows for plastic. “Absolutely not,” was his conclusion. "Wooden widows are so much more attractive.” No they’re not, says I. They require constant repainting, repairing and splicing, none of it cheap. So now I have perfectly fitting, draught excluding, plastic windows on the weather side. I was also pleasantly surprised by the workmen doing the job. They were relatively quiet, cleaned up after themselves and caused minor disruption, allowing me to escape to a different room with each window. Even so, there was a moment when the boss man and I almost fell out. Over Brexit, what else. He was a fervent Leaver who trotted out all the long-discredited lies we were told three years ago. There is no getting through to some. I wished him Good Luck and left the room quickly.  I had learned my lesson from a previous experience, much more painful and embarrassing, which I’ll come to next.

You see, there was this dinner party at a very good friend’s house, the guests being a couple from London, a couple from Valley’s End and me. We have met at this house in previous years, always get on well and usually have a splendid evening, with lots of wine, food, good conversation and a general feeling of goodwill to all assembled. Except this time I related my experiences and feelings about the need to apply for Settled Status after 50 years of living the UK, once Brexit has become reality. O dear. It appeared that the couple from London and the host, with whom they were staying for the weekend, had already had a falling-out the previous evening. So my remark simply stirred the flames all over again. It was most unpleasant for a while, a lot of wine had been consumed and tempers flared, in a quietly genteel way, neither bad language nor insults were employed, but tempers flared. I know that families have fallen out, co-workers have fallen out, friends have fallen out over this wretched business but I never imagined that a genial host and his guests would suddenly, in the middle of a most enjoyable dinner party, stage a mini-war. At the moment the UK is not a friendly place.

So, human interaction is all very well, but it does not necessarily lead to happiness.

Onward and Upward

but not looking solely towards the future rather than being in the here and now. Continual learning is an essential part of life. (I looked up the difference between continual and continuous and have plumped for the former, continuous learning might be too headache-inducing).

Anyway, I had one of those lightbulb moments the other day. I took courage and invited three friends to supper, two came and one cried off; the three of us had a lovely evening. These ladies are easy to get along with, chatty, we had a conversation consisting of personal details, a bit of gossip, a few remarks about the state of the world; a friendly conversation in spite of quite marked differences in opinion. There was the first lesson: you can be on good terms even if you are not in agreement about quite serious matters. I had decided to go easy on the work involved, no hours of preparation, slaving over a hot stove; this was the menu:

cold smoked wafer-thin meats 

olives and feta cheese

crusty French bread

ice cold Zinfandel to drink

marinated lemon and herb chicken breast filets

roasted mediterranean vegetables

baby potatoes

Merlot

chocolate fudge brownie and cream

coffee

Looked at quickly it seems quite impressive but none of it was work. Shoving a dish of chicken filets and a dish of vegetables in the oven is no work at all. I burnt the fudge round the edges but as we were only three and not four as planned the middle of the dish was sufficient for our appetites. Second lesson: even when half the food served is bought at the deli the meal can still be interesting and good to eat. Something to remember for my next supper, I might even invite a chap or two, although I may have to put more effort into ‘sparkling’ conversation.

At the moment I am rather obsessed with the near future. I made two appointments with my favourite doctor, just to ask him for his educated guess as to my longevity or otherwise. I cancelled both appointments. You can’t just walk into the surgery and demand “how long have I got”; “what plans should I make” ; what hassle can I spare myself?” Solicitors and legal matters, house renovations, finance plans, even holidays. Round and round in my head they go. No longer having the person with whom you used to make decisions near leaves you a bit breathless. I don’t have family to consult - well, I have my son, of course, but I don’t think that I’d find his advice totally acceptable. He is a lovely man but we differ in basic ways of looking at the world.  

Apart from the damaged leg I am actually quite well at the moment, there is no reason to think that I might not survive for a good few years yet. Which is more or less what one of my friends said. She sounded quite nonplussed at my dithering about what needs doing. “But you’ve decided to stay in the house,” she said, implying that " there are maintenance jobs pending, there are legal matters after your husband’s death to settle, there are financial provisions to sort out". How right she is.

There is no need for advice on the necessity of doing these jobs, just maybe on how to do them. (Just to clarify: this lady is ninety and has been a very active widow since her husband died some years ago.)

So, lesson three: don’t go round and round in circles, look at the actual, current, situation and start at the beginning, in the here and now, not in a nebulous and possibly frightening future. So today I have booked a plumber to change some taps and sort out my aged radiator thermostat systems. 

All Or Nothing

Clematis Tangutica in October

The phone rang: “Sorry, Mrs. Friko, I have rammed a chisel into my hand. It doesn’t look good, I’d better go to A + E.” So said Paul, aka New Gardener, five weeks ago. He required surgery and a long process of healing.

The phone rang: “Sorry, Mrs. Friko., I can’t come on Thursday, I’ve hurt my back. I’ve an appointment with the Physio.” So said Old Gardener three weeks ago. He was unable to move without pain for two weeks and unable to bend for another week.

“The mind of the gardener is, in a way, the mind of the chess player.

He makes a move after having thought out what the ultimate effect

of that move may be. He visualises the end of the game.” *

Late September, early October, after the long hiatus of high summer, when gardeners take a well deserved break and spend a little time glorying in the fruit of their labours and admire the ravishing colours of their borders, it is time to pick up the pieces and continue the game. It’s actually a busy time in the calendar, pruning, tidying, clearing paths, transplanting and planting, clipping rose bushes, dividing overgrown clumps of herbaceous perennials, generally planning the coming spring's changes. 

No help for it, I had to knuckle down myself. Except, I seem to have become strangely feeble, lacking not just energy but also strength enough to dig holes, transplant small shrubs, do serious weeding. It’s hard to get down on my knees and even harder to get up again. As for pruning fruit trees, forget it. How did I ever do all these things myself? What happened to me? 

Sitting down, going for gentle walks, snipping here and setting in the earth there, I forget how old I have become. The disparity between spirit and flesh springs to mind. When I can’t fall asleep I now-a-nights spend a lot of time gardening in my mind. Having Austin and Paul has made a huge difference and I’ve rediscovered my pleasure in creating an outdoor space that’s worth looking at.

Then, last week, the phone rang: Hi Mum, I’ve got a bit of time to spare. Would you like me to come for a couple of days and catch up on jobs round the house? How about from Monday to Wednesday?"

“Yes, please.”

Then Paul rang.: "My hand is much better, would you like me to come back next week? I can make Tuesday."

“Yes, please.”

Then Old Gardener rang: “The Physio has helped, I could come over on Tuesday and give you the morning.”

Goodness me, no. Absolutely not. How would I cope with supervising and ordering about three of them? “No, please. But if you can make it Thursday, that’d be great.”

Which means that between Monday and Thursday my garden has been in intensive care, with operations being carried out at a tremendous pace. Old Gardener left just before lunch today. He’s coming back on Monday, Paul is coming back on Tuesday. At this rate I shall run out of jobs by the end of this month. They know of each other, could they be making themselves indispensable, each in his own way? My son won’t be back for three months, he’s out of the running. It was lovely to have him, even better to have got through a list of tasks which needed urgent attention, but having busy people around makes me want to get out of their way and take a nap. As that was out of the question, it being politic to show willing to chip in occasionally, I feel as tired as if I had done the work myself.

The unmistakable smell of autumn is the smell of decay, shot through with the bitter fumes of smoke. With the help of my son Old  Gardener was deprived of one of his favourite activities, namely lighting bonfires. He is a bit of a pyromaniac, bringing with him a supply of spent oil just on the off- chance. I believe it might even be illegal to use spent oil.  Watching a large pile of prunings, both of trees and shrubs, growing to unmanageable proportions fills me with dread. The last time Austin took it upon himself to set light to such a pile, immediately upon arrival and before I could give explicit permission for the deed, there was a massive fire going in a wooded part of the garden. He badly scorched a branch of the beech tree which is clinging on for dear life anyway, a yew hedge and  one side of a yew pillar. I wasn’t keen on a repetition. When I remonstrated he said: " they’ll grow again, they’ll be back next year.”

Solon, my son, took it upon himself to break up, cut and even saw through each bit of pruning, stuffed what could be stuffed into the green council bin for collection and otherwise filled two huge builders’ bags (the sort they deliver sand and grit in) and took them to the tip. It was a boring and repetitive job, but the stuff is all gone. And I am inordinately pleased. Austin was quite downcast this morning when he saw the empty space where the raw ingredients for a fire had been. “I see you’ve got rid of my bonfire,” he said.

*Richard Wright:  The Practical Book of Outdoor Flowers 1924

Not Everything Went Wrong

 over the Christmas period. On the contrary, a lot went right.

True, a friend delivering a last minute card for me fell down some steps in the dark and hurt her foot;

true, the river came out (burst its banks), and it took a jolly old paddle to get across to the other side;

true, walking in the castle grounds was a merry squelch, each step a fight to stay upright;

true, the backdoor, still not replaced, let lots of rain into the scullery;

true, I took twice the maximum dose of beta blockers for more than a week without realising and  wondered why I was feeling a bit slow at times;

true, by the time we finally sat down to the main event, i.e. the turkey, three of us had to admit defeat long before our plates were empty.

But,
we had electricity,
no flood waters came into the house.
and no trees fell on us during the gales.


We had a lovely time with two dear friends, half of it spent at our house and half at theirs.
There was music, poetry, the Queen’s speech, the ‘Downton Abbey’ special, a pleasant bottle or four (over the whole day) and delicious food, even if all of us passed on the plum pudding due to prior overindulgence, in the true spirit of Christmas.

And now it’s Silvester, or Hogmanay, the end of the year.

Be sure to finish today any work you have in hand, for a task carried over into the New Year will never prosper.

At midnight, prepare to welcome the first visitor of the New Year, whose nature will determine your household’s fortune therein.  This first-footer (or Lucky Bird) should be a tall, well-made man, and in most parts of the country very dark men are preferred. He should not be a doctor, minister, lawyer or policeman; he must not wear any black or carry a knife or edged tool; and, above all, he must come bearing gifts - which should include a loaf, a bottle of whiskey, a piece of coal and perhaps a silver coin. He must enter in silence, and none should speak to him until he has put the coal on the fire, poured a glass for the head of the household, and wished the company

A

Happy New Year.

Sod’s Law

Nine months ago we accepted an estimate for a complete overhaul of the windows on the South side of the house, all eight of them. Ditto the back door, which has been quietly rotting away at the bottom. “Please don’t come during the week before ‘Open Garden’,” I said, "but any other time will be fine.”  ‘Open Garden’ was in June.

“Well, it depends on the weather and the order book,” said Kevin the builder, a very nice chap. He’s a local contractor,  all of his sub-contractors are pleasant chaps; we’ve used them all for one job or another and liked them all. Once you’ve found a good set of traders and workmen you bend over backwards not to lose them.

Three months ago, when Beloved had a small operation to remove a BCC,  the surgeon said :”What’s that on your arm, that doesn’t look good to me. Better make an appointment for a biopsy.” For weeks both Beloved and his GP have been pestering the Dermatology Department at Shrewsbury Hospital for an appointment.
“We are very busy but we'll arrange for a check-up as soon as possible.”

In due course a letter arrived from the hospital with a date: “5th November.

Yesterday we had a phone call from Kevin the builder: “Okay if we come tomorrow, 5th November?”

Purely a rhetorical question, by the way.

Beloved is no longer able to drive, he can’t see well enough. The Licensing
Authority are particularly unwilling

to issue licences for half-blind people.
I can see why, there is a certain kind of logic to that.

What to do? To go or to stay?Hospital or builder?

“I know, I’ll ask the Community Car People for help.” I’m nothing if not quick on my thinking feet.

“Mary (the person who runs the scheme) is away in Shrewsbury,” Keith, her husband said. "I’ll give her the message, when I pick her up. It should be no later than 3 o’clock.”

By six o’clock, when neither Keith nor Mary had got in touch, I became a bit restive. I had to make a decision one way or the other. Keith sounded awfully fuzzy when I rang back. “Mary isn’t back yet, they’ve kept her in.” Kept her in? Kept her in where? It emerged that Mary was in hospital and had made no arrangements for anyone else to take over from her. I gave up on Keith and started ringing round for the names of the volunteers who man the car service. It then emerged that Keith is no longer the man he was, a bit ‘out of it’ as you might say, but that Mary was keeping it quiet. “She doesn’t like it generally known.” Poor Mary.

A former volunteer was able to give me two names of people who might be willing to take Beloved to hospital in the morning. I rang them both. The first number died after four rings and the second number was answered by a machine. “Sorry, we’re out at the moment.”

By now it was eight o’clock and I still had no idea what to do in the morning. Because of the many calls I had made, my plight had become known. Betty said Nigel might do it.  I rang Nigel. Another machine. An hour later I rang Nigel again, just to make sure I had called the right number. Still the machine. Don’t people stay at home anymore on dark and wet November nights?

Beloved and I decided that we would wait for the builders to arrive, and give them free access to the house and windows, while I took him to his appointment. We’d hurry back and would be gone for no more than between three and four hours.

At ten o’clock Nigel’s wife Joan rang. “Nigel won’t mind driving Beloved in the morning. He’s out all evening but tell me what time you want him and I’ll see that he gets to you.”

I like a determined woman, who knows her husband’s mind, don’t you?

The builders will be with us for a few days yet. I’ll be on hand to provide the tea.

Dark Days

From light to darkness - how soon things change. Before you know it black clouds roll in and overwhelm you.

Up until a few days ago I felt quite happy. It seemed that several longstanding problems melted away with the judicious application of tact and a small handful of folding money.  I had found a man with a van to collect and dispose of heaps of garden debris; I tried out a new helper in the garden and Gardener seemed to be pleased that the hardest tasks had been done in his absence. There was a spell of warm sunny weather to aid the passing of summer. My son and his wife came and mended a wardrobe whose door had not shut for a twelve month. An electrician fixed lamps and light switches and promised to return and repair the outdoor lights on the drive. My daughter-in-law asked me for family recipes, writing them down there and then. “These shouldn’t be lost”, she said. I had never known that she considered my cooking memorable, so I was highly flattered. I was quite overcome and gave her my mum’s dough kneading machine, which I had never used.

It felt good, things were falling into place; I don’t find happiness easy, bubbly is not the word I’d use to describe me; for me quiet optimism and contentment are very desirable mental attributes.

But now the rains have come and a dark cloud has settled on my mind too. For several days the AGA has refused to stay alight, which means the kitchen is cold and I cannot cook anything at all. We live off microwaveable ready meals and pub lunches. I have yet to find a ready meal we actually enjoy and the allure of pub food palls when you depend on it. Two supper guests programmed for tonight had to be uninvited. The repairman called twice: "short of a miracle the burner unit in the AGA has had it, it’s old age,” he said,” there’s nothing I can do.”  A new one will be £700 incl. of labour.  Ah well, if all the ailments that come with old age could be fixed with pennies and pounds we’d all save up and dance a merry dance instead of rubbing our creaking joints with arnica massage oils, hoping for relief from nasty arthritic twinges.

You may say why does this depress her so. After all, it can, and will be, fixed. Well chaps, there is something else, something that cannot be fixed. I found out this week that somebody whom I have known for over forty years, somebody very dear to me, actually deeply dislikes and resents me. True, we have seen little of each other for several years, and the relationship has cooled. But to learn that she has been keeping a careful tally of grievances and grudges, not only against me but a number of other people, with me as the main culprit, was a body blow, wholly unexpected, leaving me gasping for air.

The dark clouds have opened and shed their load; it’s raining outside and inside too.

Sunshine and Showers

For two gloriously sunny days I spent every possible minute outside. Gardener’s ribs settled down and so did my heart, fingers crossed! Many of you must have done just that, so thank you, it worked.  For most of you away from the UK summer is when there is this golden ball high in the sky which distributes warmth and light to all, sinners and saints alike, for months on end. Not here. You all know how Brits like to whinge about the weather, well, there is plenty to whinge about.


An annual spring task is trying to eradicate Welsh poppies. They’re very pretty, popping up all over the place. Unfortunately, they tend to seed themselves everywhere, even into the centre of other plants, which then have to be dug up, divided and freed from the invader.

Gardener is a sensible chap, he stopped after three hours on Saturday and went home. He still managed to make me large quantities of potting compost for tubs and pots, clean out a gutter and repair it, dig up and move a small Japanese acer which was in the wrong place and dig over a couple of small vegetable plots. (The zucchini I planted have already shrivelled a bit. Perhaps the night time temperatures are still too low).

Beloved and I had bought a few plants; I potted some up and planted the rest in the borders. This morning I got going on tender geraniums and fuchsias; as it’s raining again today, and the forecast remains gloomy - naturally - I’m hoping that the temperature will stay above frost from now on.

As I said, it’s raining again, the day has turned miserably grey and Millie and I got wet; our walk was short, no further than down to the river and round the castle. She’s a good dog, she takes herself for little outings in the garden, there’s plenty for her to explore. She’ll get fat though; every time she comes back in she wants - and often gets - a coming-home-biscuits.

The difference between today and yesterday is huge. We sat over our breakfast in the conservatory, doors and windows open, listening to the church bells being rung. First there was the usual test drive of two bells; perhaps the bellringers arrive in an uneven procession and everybody who turns up grabs hold of their rope and starts pulling. Eventually they sort themselves out and the noise begins to make sense; sometimes they even manage a proper peal. Or could that be a recording?

As soon as they stopped, somebody rang a coloured dove. At least, that’s what it sounded like, two notes, one repeated. I was woken by bird song at 4am. On first becoming aware of the noise I thought it was some high pitched electrical hum in the house, but when I’d roused myself sufficiently, the hum turned into a thousand battle cries being flung into the glorious dawn. Why are birds so belligerent?  If they don’t have enough room to live why do they have so many babies? You should see the huge sparrow families fighting over the seed tray. Benefit Scroungers! 

Beauty And Kindness All Around In My World

It’s wonderful when I have to eat my words!

No matter whether I complain about the weather, tiresome people, the boring place we live in, or my own shortcomings, before I can turn around, somebody or something smacks me right between the eyes to prove me wrong.

Dark rain clouds and snowy skies hang heavy over the valley, draining the spirit of man and beast. And then the sun comes out and Wham! the gentle world surrounding me is transformed into one of beauty and joy.

Just when I finished telling  Mary D of Stalled at Twelve, a blog I never miss, how I admire her for her humanity and wish I had a little more of it myself, she writes to praise me for having loved, learned and understood much in my life; she has only my blog to go on and if that’s the opinion she has, I am grateful.

Nobody can be in any doubt that I do not find the entire human race likeable. I am not proud of it but I don’t consider it a failing either. But I don’t often enough expect people to be kind and helpful without ulterior motive, until somebody’s selfless act of generosity brings me up short in amazement. This is what happened this evening. Beloved came to me, greatly disturbed, showing me the dead transmitter for the central heating boiler. “I never touched it”, he was really worried that I'd blame him - his eyesight is too poor to recognise the symbols and he’s got it wrong before now. I fumbled and fussed with the thing, it wouldn’t work. I tried the batteries, dead, and no working ones as back up in the house.  We were just accepting that we’d have to be without heating when I decided to ring my neighbour and good friend Sally for help. “I am sure we have spares”, she said immediately. “I’ll have a look for them and bring them over”. It was after nine pm and pouring with rain, the way from her house to mine goes through a dark field and is 200m or more. I protested that I’d come to her house. “No no”, she said, “I’ll bring them over.” Which she did, within ten minutes, dripping wet in her anorak and armed with her flashlight. With the new batteries I  could re-programme the transmitter and we are once again cosy in a warm house. Thank you very much, Sally. We couldn't ask for a better neighbour.

Would many people be as kind as Sally? I don’t know. But I’m learning to expect - and ask for and accept - the help people in this little place at the end of the valley, this tiny town I call My World are willing to give.




For more contributions to Our World Tuesday click on the link.

A Year in the Life of a Lady Gardener - February

There must be many gardening ladies who have been out and about seeing to the jobs which need doing; I have to admit that I worked for exactly one day this month. There is a list of tasks due in February as long as my arm, I didn’t do any of them.  For a few days I simply wasn’t well enough to do anything, the rest of the time it was too cold. The spring flowers which poked their heads above ground in January shrank back again in February. Cornus should have been cut back by now, they’ll have to wait. Herbaceous perennials like hellebores sit in the midst of their browning leaves; too bad. The beautiful bronze leaves of epimedium have shrivelled to an unsightly mess; tough. Etc. etc.

Gardener chose to come and fix the fence on the one sunny day we had this month, which meant that I had to go out too. The fact that he’s taken off his winter jacket in the picture means nothing; he works so furiously hard, that he works himself into a lather. Believe me when I say that I was wearing several fleeces and had my woollen hat pulled well over my ears. And still my nose was dripping steadily in the cold air!

January’s and February’s storms had smashed parts of the fence to pieces and my neighbour Clive, a grumpy old man who lives in a large, ancient cottage all by himself, with only Willow, his fat old pony for company, had been giving me dirty looks every time the wind tore down another bit of the wooden panels. He’d been propping it up with large planks, and even a metal pole, more or less all winter. I expect he only just managed to stop himself from adding a large sign with an arrow pointing to the damage.

Clive is still not happy because Gardener has replaced the panels with pig mesh. “It’s a bit open, isn’t it?"  he complained. “We’re going to grow shrubs along the fence” . I had told Gardener to calm Clive down, they are both genuine Shropshire men and know how to deal with each other, not like me and Beloved, who are ‘From Off’. It’s up to me to erect a fence and I have every right to choose the kind I want. “Make sure you plant them a foot off the boundary”. Clive had to have the parting shot. He’s alright really, keeps himself entirely to himself. When we moved in he found a gap in his busy schedule of pottering around in the field with Willow, his garden and cottage, to remind us that his neighbourliness went no further than telling me when any plants in my garden encroached on his. “ I like privacy,” he said. “That’s good, so do we,” I replied in very friendly tones - someone ‘From Off’ needs to be careful in these parts.

I know I said earlier that I “worked” for a day; truth to tell : I shirked more than worked. I helped Gardener by telling him how to keep his lines straight, dug up a few weeds and stood around planning what to do where. Millie helped with the latter. We also had several cups of tea. Furthermore, I had a very busy time working out who this little fellow was. There had been a flock of bramblings a few days prior, during one of the storms, but they had all disappeared again. Perhaps this one had lost contact with his mates. He sat for ages under the feeders, all puffed up, occasionally picking at the ground; I expect he was catching his breath and it was my duty to stay within reach to repel predators.

However, I have promised to open the garden in aid of charity to paying customers at the end of June; Gardener was full of pity for me and my rash decision and just a tad doubtful that, on current showing,  I would be anywhere near ready by then.

Humdrum

is quite often oddly satisfying.

"Did you see what I did last week? Did you notice the sparkle?"

It was Kelly's morning for cleaning. As I was about to remove myself, out of her way, and disappear into the garden,  her question arrested my flight. Like many women, I feel guilty about employing another woman to clean up after me, and like to pretend it's not happening by being really busy with something else, but Kelly is totally matter-of-fact about it and cheerfully admits that she needs the money. I hovered, uncertain what it was I should have noticed. On her previous session I had had to take Beloved to the eye clinic for his sixth poke in the eye with a sharp object, and we'd not seen her at all. Kelly knows where the key is and we trust her to get on with the job while we're out.

"Didn't you notice that I cleaned the cooker surround? I took your pottery down and gave it a good scrub and I did the tiles too. It was really greasy everywhere."

"Oh, thank you, Kelly, of course I noticed it, you did a grand job. You made such a difference."

I took a closer look and the tiles really did seem clean. and the pots had lost the fuzziness that comes with sticky dust. A little ashamed that I hadn't even noticed before, I repeated my thanks. Every job well done deserves appreciation and all too often I forget how important this appreciation was to me during my own working life.



This time Kelly had to clean up after a pair of
plasterers. The builders finally arrived to attend to the
damp and mouldy patches which we had ignored
for far too long.



The damage under the eaves was due to
a leaking roof and has been steadily getting
worse over the past twelve months. We've had
enough rain for the house to float, like
Noah's Ark, down the hill and away with
the river and we were quite relieved to see that
there was no rot in the timbers.




It was Kelly who noticed that the
broom cupboard downstairs was peeling
off the wall. I tend to see such things with
only half a mind; I hate repairmen in the
house and any job like that will probably
cause upheaval, mess and great expenditure.




But when the leak seeped all the way into the
downstairs bathroom something had to be done.

Considering that it takes even the best regulated
firm of builders many months to turn up, it might
have been been more sensible to get on to
them a bit sooner; but now the job is done, there's
only the painting to come and the pressure is off.

We haven't had the bill yet.


I told the chap in the first photo that I was
taking his picture for my blog.

"What's a blog ", he asked.

"A kind of online diary. - ok, so mine isn't really,
but  it would have taken too long to explain the 
convoluted nature of this particular example of the
genre -. There'll be people on other continents reading
about you and they'll see your picture".

"Really", he said, "cool".

He might have been humouring me, the client; the 'cool'
made me stop and wonder. He was at least in his thirties
and nobody older than thirteen should use this expression, but he was a nice chap. They both were, and they managed to work all day without a radio blaring pop music. They also cleaned up after themselves, leaving plenty of surface dust but no real mess. If anybody round this end of Shropshire reads this and needs a building contractor, I can recommend them.


And finally, humdrum is as humdrum does; it is a quick walk I take on so many afternoons of my life here in the Marches, but no matter how often I retrace my steps around 'my' castle, the pleasure never wanes. But then, you've heard me brag about this many times before.

Interim Report

Eleven-thirty at night and I am just switching on the computer to see what, if anything, has happened in my comment section and to check for emails, prior to getting ready for bed. The house is fairly quiet, I can hear Beloved in the hall downstairs, talking to Benno. I expect they are getting ready to come upstairs.

Then a thumping, thudding noise, as if a heavy sack is being dragged on the stairs, bouncing on each step; a yelp of distress and a final bump.

"Are you there? Can you come? Quickly!" A plaintive call, with a hint of suppressed fear in it, reaches me in my study at the other end of the house upstairs. I rush to the top of the stairs and the wheezing, whistling, choking noises are appalling; it sounds as if Benno is suffocating, each breath harder to force into his lungs than the last. Beloved is crouched on the bottom step, above  Benno, who is in a heap on the floor, trembling and struggling for breath, utterly panic-stricken. In trying to climb the stairs his arthritic hind legs have lost purchase and he tumbled down, on his belly, scrabbling madly for support but unable to stop himself, landing seven steps down, back at the bottom. Mummy Friko instantly springs into action, or rather slips to the floor next to Benno, cradling his head, holding it up, stretching his legs out from under him and murmuring a flood of reassuring, calming, idiot, endearments into his muzzle, stroking and laying on hands. The laying-on-of-hands is not a joke, I've done it many a time when he has been wracked with stomach cramps, it worked, at least until I could send someone for Buscopan tablets.

Eventually, Benno calmed down, his breathing, which has been pretty laboured for several weeks now, evened out and he managed to get back into the living room under his own steam. No more stair climbing for Benno. For the past three days I have slept on a hard, narrow sofa, downstairs, with him on the rug in front of me.

The vet's tests have been inconclusive. Benno has an enlarged heart chamber and some fuzziness on the lung, neither of which is supposed to be immediately life-threatening. He does not have laryngeal paralysis, so the extreme shortness of breath any time he moves is a puzzle. He eats well again, the diarrhoea has stopped, but now he hardly pees, when before he could pee for England, for minutes at a time. His heart and lung tablets don't seem to be doing a great deal yet.

I don't know what to do. I am exhausted, looking after him every minute of the day is wearing me out. I can't settle to anything, all appointments are cancelled. Instead of cheering myself up by reading some light book I chose Anne Enright's Man Booker Prize Winner "The Gathering", a dark tale full of miserable people living miserable lives; I don't really like "Irish" books, there's too much furtive and unpleasant sex in them, the sleazy, fiddling with kids sort, and the unhealthy, breeding-like-rabbits, marital sort, joyless, passionless. Apart from that, I am keeping busy in a joyless way myself, doing laundry and other mind-numbing tasks around the house. I simply don't know what to do. Benno has another vet appointment on Monday -  vets are like dentists, both are surely filthy rich, I am glad I get my own treatments off the NHS, otherwise we'd be on bread and water. One thing is for sure: Benno is unlikely to get much better; at 12 years and 5 old months he has done well for a labrador. (I even got his age wrong the last time I mentioned him here,  made him one year younger; I daresay the wish was the mother of that statement.)

I am also fed up being on this treadmill of misery; at least my own news is good: the urine tests were normal. I knew they would be, I haven't got time to be ill myself. The damp patches have been examined and found to be reparable - at a cost, naturally -  so I will soon be able to be really rude about builders.

Could somebody out there please make me laugh? I am so grateful for the wonderful, supportive comments that my misery post called forth, soon I will come and reply and visit again; in the meantime forgive me for being a bad blogger. (I am fighting the urge to feel guilty as hard as I can) Thank you all for being such lovely friends, what would I do without you to open up my heart to. Soon it'll be decision time, but for now I have no idea what to do for the best.

S&P*L$U^TT*E_R)&@^R^A+G=E=@**SIGH

Everything is going wrong.

Benevolent gods keeping home and hearth safe, the kindly spirits supposed to look after our animals, and the guardian angels we thought we could personally rely on, all have forsaken us. We have been abandoned and left to fend for ourselves in the teeth of bitter winds blowing through the threadbare fabric of our house, exposing us to the whims and wiles of builders and plumbers, veterinary surgeons and medical practitioners.

Where to start? At the beginning, when the dark clouds gathered above us - concentrating most unkindly on my innocent head and sending me into my old familiar black hole - I ignored the signs. Depression does that, it allows you to feel miserable in peace, whatever else is happening around you is of secondary importance next to your own overwhelming melancholia and inertia. But then the dog, who had been breathing hard and coughing for a while, became worse. "Hayfever", said I and the vet agreed. But antihistamines didn't work. "He needs steroids," said the vet.

The house too had been sending out distress signals for a while. Mainly the aroma of damp and mould. Kelly came, rummaged in the broom cupboard to extricate the vacuum cleaner from the narrow space and asked, "Have you noticed the wet patch on the wall in here?" I try to use the broom cupboard as little as I can, that's her job, but yes, there was a large wet patch, and to judge by the marks, it had been growing for a few weeks. "Talking of wet patches", Kelly continued, ever keen to be of use, "the bit in the cupboard under the eaves is growing too. You should have it checked out with all the rain we've had."

"Rain damage?" Beloved's ears pricked up. Although his hearing is not what it was, the possibility of insurance cover miraculously restored it - only temporarily, of course; he still holds an imaginary trumpet to his ear every time I address him with a polite request for a small favour. Alas, the insurance company sent their assessor who turned us down flat. "This leak is of long-standing", he said, (or should that be 'long-running'?), not our responsibility". Builders called and sucked in their breath through their teeth, hard. "It'll cost you", they said. "And have you noticed how rotten the window frames on this side of the house are?" Nothing if not helpful, these builders. Yes, we had noticed, but we'd been hoping that the problem might go away if we didn't examine it too closely. After all, there's more to life than studying the frames of eight large windows, which might, or might not, need mending or replacing.

Benno got sicker. Was it the effect of taking steroids? He is the cleanest dog imaginable, but desperate to get from upstairs to a door to the outside,  he dribbled diarrhoea all down the stairs and finally abandoned all attempts at civilised toilet habits on the oriental rug in the downstairs hall. He was so very ill and unhappy, he broke my heart. The stairs have been cleaned, the rug was hosed off in the garden and is now awaiting the sun gods to dry it. Benno is still very poorly, his breathing is rough and he still has the runs. Even a diet of boiled rice, chicken breast fillet and boiled eggs hasn't had any effect. Tomorrow morning he is off to the vet's for x-rays and tests under anaesthetic. Naturally I've consulted Google for possible ailments, laryngeal paralysis is the most obvious candidate for a labrador of his age. I am not happy. I've already spent an hour howling and it hasn't even happened yet.

The good news story is by no means over, my GP (doctor) demanded my presence at the surgery. "I don't like the result of your kidney tests much", she said. (SHE doesn't like them, what about me?) Twenty five years ago I had kidney failure, but have been in remission, without any problems, for about twenty years. "I think we'll keep an eye on the protein in your pee" (only she said urine, being a doctor); which means, that to supply her with a regular sample, I have to pee into a jug and siphon off a dribble into a tiny vial provided for the purpose. At least I get a short walk in, taking the vial to the surgery. The woman also complained that I wasn't getting enough exercise now, what with the dog being old, Beloved crippled with arthritis and my computer duties having taken the place of regular, healthy, outdoor activity. That is, when I'm not stuck down that black hole ignoring the computer.

I tell you, fellow bloggers and dear readers, there's never a dull moment in this house. In all the excitement I've even dragged myself out of that black hole, but I'm only just sitting on the edge and it'll take no more than a slight shifting of the buttocks to slip right back in.