29 October 2017
It has been six weeks since I last shared a post and much to my surprise people have been in touch to ask where it is. Some were quite demanding, as if my failure to provide were in fact a crime. One person even emailed to ask if I had died. A funny yet unbelievably stupid question. As Halloween will soon be upon us I was tempted to reply from beyond the grave:
“Oh yes. I bought the farm a few weeks ago. Ate some of my own cooking. Stupid of me really. Won’t do that again! Hahaha! Sorry for not letting you know but it’s a little tricky when your cruising the spectral plane.” Just to be clear, at the time of writing I am very much alive.
It is my parents fault you were blog less.
My father’s decision to stop driving some weeks ago – due to the fact he could not see – came at the same time he was due to have an operation.
When in hospital his attention was focused on the free multi-channel TV, the life expediency of his fellow ward residents and whatever was next on the menu, therefore he didn’t fully focus when they were giving out the post-operative advice. I am not sure if it was that or just bad luck, but things didn’t go very smoothly when he got home.
This unfortunate turn of events ensured that for the last six weeks every day has started with one of two activities:
1. Rise at 5am and go to the fun factory
2. Rise at 5am and either:
a. Drop someone off at the hospital
b. Take someone to visit someone else at the hospital
c. Pick someone up and bring them home from the hospital
There were few days when I didn’t fulfil the role of taxi driver, sometime without any notice. “I need to go to the hospital now!”
I am sure you will agree this was very noble of me but I need to put it into context.
For reasons I shall not go into my relationship with my parents has never been close. As soon as I was able I moved away and for many years we lived 500 miles apart. This suited me fine, then three years ago my parents decided to leave their leafy chocolate-box village in rural Oxfordshire and move to Scotland.
They bought a house 12 miles from Castle Murray which the Domestic Manager thought an excellent notion. It meant we would be close by to help out as they got older.
I was then faced with a choice that once made could not be easily reversed. I could just ignored them and pretend they were not there, or I could show them just what a splendid chap I had become by being the model son.
I went for the latter, which caused my mother much consternation. Not long after they arrived she asked the Domestic Manager if I was being nice because I was about to put them into a home. What a ludicrous idea. Have you seen the price of those places? Bloody outrageous!
My/our commitment to ensuring their health and well being plus other trivial activities like eating, sleeping and going to work have filled every waking minute for the last few weeks. Hence the silence.
Despite this things have not been as dull as you might imagine.
In addition to the improptu visits to hospital, for the last few weeks I have been taking my Father to Arbroath for 4 hours of dialysis on a Saturday morning. While he gets bored lying in bed I cycle up and down the coast trying to lose weight.
Last week I was really enjoying the sun and the seaside from the saddle. Then I was over taken by a 70-year-old woman on a squeaky bike circa 1975. She was racing along and wasn’t even out of breath. I tried to catch her, failed and went very red with exertion and embarrassment. Although she did noticeably slow down once past me. Perhaps she was trying to put on a show too.
Last weekend my parents invited us to dinner. My mother had roasted an enormous chicken which I was asked to carve, but when I did I was shocked by its colour. I had never before seen one that pink after it had been cooked. I decided to investigate and inquired as to the origin of the unfortunate bird.
“Oh it is one your father got. A cheapie. Been in the freezer for ages”.
Cause and effect in perfect harmony. Up until that night I didn’t know that like pheasant, chicken could also be gamey.
Part of our comprehensive parent support service has been the requirement to drive their car. The vehicle is almost new but getting behind the wheel is a unique experience.
Every pocket and cubby hole is stuffed with receipts, sweet wrappers, used hankies and the like. In the middle console there is always at least one open bag of sweets. One fell over some time ago and there is still half a pound of sugar in the finger space under the handbrake.
In the back is a smelly old dog bed complete with smelly old dog. He has to come everywhere and often just sits in the car for fun. He puts his head between the seats, blows snot on the side of your face and there is a towel on the centre armrest to catch the drool. As I find the experience almost intolerable I have transferred most of my ‘driving their car’ responsibilities to the Domestic Manager. She seems to have no issue with the detritus and the slavering beast.
Life at the fun factory has been enlivened recently by two incidents on the early morning train to Edinburgh.
A few weeks ago a woman in a Tesco’s uniform sat behind me and in Dundee a man got on and sat next to her. No more than a minute into our journey he sneezed once and she immediately exploded.
“YOU have a cold! You need to move. NOW! I’m not getting another cold!”
“Eh?” replied the infected gent.
“I have missed TWO marathons due to catching other people’s colds and I’m not missing another. So go on. MOVE!”
He replied using two words that indicated he had no intention of moving and that perhaps she should be the one to find a different seat. It seems ‘Every little doesn’t help’ when it comes to sharing the cold virus.
Then last week someone else got on and sat behind me. At the last stop before Edinburgh lots of people got on and the train was absolutely packed. People were standing down the middle of the carriage trying not to look uncomfortable and failing.
Someone sat next to the guy behind and he said loudly and very aggressively in a broad Dundonian accent
“You cannae sit there pal. I’m claustrophobic. I need the space. Go! Go on. You need to move. NOW”.
So the guy did. Then a lady sat down.
“Did you no hear? I’m claustrophobic. No-one can sit there. NO-ONE. Got it?”
So she moved too.
Intrigued by this character I got my phone out, switched the camera to facing and watched him.
He was around 25 years old. He had a white stick. He had big dark sunglasses like blind people have. He was the very picture of someone that needed extra support.
He was also reading the paper, messaging on his phone and watching out the window.
Plus he was dressed exactly how I imagine a benefit fraudster would dress.
I suspected his claustrophobia was much like his blindness, as in it was a pack of lies, but I wasn’t going to ask. This was because overall he looked less vulnerable and needy and more violent and crazy.
Last week we had a short holiday and took our caravan to Edinburgh. What fun we had! We put the awning up. Then we took it down again for Hurricane Ophelia. Then we put it up again…… you get the picture.
We also did lots of other fun things which included going to the pictures as a family for the first time in years. It cost £32 for two adults and a ‘teen’. Used to be £1 each when I was young. And you got two films. And you could smoke. They were the days.
We also climbed Arthur’s seat, the hopefully extinct volcano that dominates the Edinburgh skyline. Alice moaned like hell all the way up but seemed to enjoy it at the top.
The summit was packed with tourists from every corner of the globe. An Australian offered to take our picture for us. Some Germans took out a loaf of bread and a pound of cheese and started making sandwiches.
Then on the way down we met some Americans. Say what you like about their current choice of president, overall they really are a very civil and polite bunch.
“Say, good morning to you sir! Are we near the top yet? This really is one hellava climb isn’t it?”
“Hello. Yes. And yes. Good day”.
Bet he thought I was really rude. Being British is both a blessing and a curse.
Which pretty much brings me to this weekend. Many months ago I foolishly agreed to do a Halloween disco at the village hall today. I do such things for free as it always sounds like a good idea at the time and is usually fun.
This meant that between 2pm and 4pm Alice and I played music really loudly, organised games and whispered about people from the stage while a hundred primary school children went mental in Halloween fancy dress.
At the end the organiser did two things that don’t usually happen. She came on stage and publicly thanked us several times, plus she gave us a financial gift for our efforts. While the gift was unnecessary a simple thank you makes it all worthwhile. When we returned home and after a period of negotiation I spilt the money with Alice. She will make a terrific shop steward one day.
I will now go and deal with the two crushed fingers, the multiple minor lacerations and the aching back that come with every disco these days. Life on the road. It’s tough. But I never complain.
Murrays Musings 