Updates and paddleboards

This was also taken in Lerryn - I couldn't resist it.

Many thanks for all your kind thoughts from last week. I am glad to report that, first and foremost, the patient is up and about again, albeit a bit weak and wobbly, but much recovered.

Secondly, following your comments and those of other friends, I've written a letter of complaint to said doc about his highly unhelpful comments. As a physician I have no truck with him – it's just when he opened his mouth that time, and unfortunately the two tend to go together.

I have the utmost respect and compassion for anyone who is a carer and/or has a sick partner or member of the family. I really don't know how they keep going, long term, except that I suppose you do if you have to. I only did two weeks of it but that was more than enough. That sick terror in the base of my stomach, the long dark nights of fear, wondering what was going to happen – or rather, when. Whereas now I feel as if I've come out of a long tunnel and seen sunlight at the other end.

On a lighter note, work has come up with some very varied jobs. This afternoon I'm off to Truro cathedral to interview the head chorister, one of the student choristers and one of the lay vicars. Then next week I am interviewing an author of historical thrillers, and on Friday off to see a wildlife animal sanctuary. It won't make me rich but it's so varied and love meeting so many different people. And animals are an even better bonus.

Lastly, I saw the most wonderful sight this morning. Imagine - the sun dazzling as it rose above the sea when I walked Molls on the beach, and silhouetted against the bright sun was a boy and his dog on a paddleboard.

(I'm kicking myself I didn't have the camera but I'm sure you can imagine in.)

Six random things

The above image comes courtesy of Ruth and is an uplifting one which I need today. An ill wind has been blowing over Flowerpot House recently and I shall be glad when it passes.

I have been tagged by maggie to list six random things, and as I did this not long ago so here is a mostly animal version:-

My first cat, Minnie, was a wonderful tortoiseshell who we met when visiting a friend’s farm. This kitten had been abandoned by her mum and was driving everyone crazy, winding herself round everyone’s ankles. She was brought up by a labrador and a goat so she had some peculiar characteristics including sitting in the stream purring.

My next cat, Cyd (named after Cyd Charisse, because she had lovely legs), belonged by my mate Sandra initially. She decided to go to Australia when Cyd was 8 and no one else would look after her until I stepped in. Having said she would be away for 6 months, Sandra actually went for 18 monthsw, and by the time she came back, Cyd was Not Amused. Sandra came over to discuss parenting rights and Cyd bit her. After that she stayed with me and we moved – oh I don’t know how many times. She fell in love with Himself (thankfully) and lived until she was 19.

We had a miserable six days after poor Cyd had to be put down, then the receptionist at work said she’d found two kittens who’d been abandoned over Christmas. They were at the vet’s in Tuckingmill and did I want one of them? Did I hell. We took our lunch hour at 10am and drove over to get them, left them with Himself at the workshop (thereby ensuring no work was done) and by the time I came home from work, Bussie had the run of the place.

Mollie came about as a cure for depression. It worked – at the time. There are hiccups of course, like the one we are struggling through at the moment, but that’s life. Mollie is a joy and keeps me sane. And Bussie? well, he's still Top Cat.

I’d actually like lots of cats and dogs, but living in a one bedroom flat with only a small yard means it’s not practical. Anyway I think Bussie might leave home.

All my cats have lived until they were at least 18. I hope Bussie does the same.

As a last item, which has nothing to do with animals, I hear that the great and talented Beryl Cook died yesterday. The world will be a poorer place without her paintings. I wish I’d met her – I bet she was such fun.

RIP Beryl.

More animals

Another one of Bussie in his box which has nothing to do with this post, but I like it.

On Christmas Eve we met another dogwalking friend who lives down the road. Betty has an Old English Sheepdog called Annie and we were talking about Travelscope going bust (see earlier post). Betty is going on a cruise in February, though not with them, and hoped that would be risk free.

‘What about Annie?’ I said.

‘My son’s going to move into my flat,’ said Betty. ‘But he starts work at 6am so I need to find someone to walk Annie in the mornings.’

Before I could think, I’d opened my mouth and said – yes, you’ve guessed it – ‘We’ll do it.’ I then looked at Himself who said, ‘We come up to the castle every day, so it’s no problem to take Annie.’

Betty looked and sounded overwhelmed, dear of her, and the next day she asked if we’d come for a drink on Christmas Day and bring my mother too.

So at noon we set off down the road and had a very congenial hour with Betty drinking wine and eating home made sausage rolls (don’t get those in this house I can tell you).

Betty is over 80 and has tremendous spirit and energy. Annie, by contrast, is a real softie who can be naughty but was incredibly well behaved when we were there. She gets Betty up at 6.30 every morning and at 8am Betty and Annie leave the flat to meet friends every morning and walk round the castle for an hour.

She always greets us with a smile and a laugh, regardless of rain or shine, gales or snow.

I’m using Betty as my role model.

Noisy villages and ageing

It's very noisy at my mother's house, surrounded by fields and orchards, deep in the Devonshire countryside. I woke early to let Mollie out and was struck by the early morning racket that us townies don't have. The raucous squawk of a pheasant across the fields; the rusty gurgle of next door's hens; a pigeon's persistent coo. In the eaves outside our window, a family of sparrows twitter from their nest; above it all a cow's long drawn out bass moo. I opened the door and was struck by the heady rich smell of summer roses; the fresh aroma of dew on grass, cool and wet against hot feet.

Upstairs, Himself was also awake and threw his book on the floor. 'It says it's his debut novel,' he said (pronounced 'day boo'). 'He should take up windowcleaning.'

At times like this I want to hold time still. On the outside he's 66 but inside I know he's really a six year old boy, and I want him to stay like that. I never usually think about our age difference (18 years) but sometimes it hits me and I panic, want him never to get any older. I shut my mind to that grey area, try not to think about that bit of our future, for what's the point? I look at my mother, nearly 80, who looks like a young girl at times. I watched Himself as we listened to Just a Minute yesterday and thought, yes, there's that six year old. What is age, after all?