Filling in the gaps

August already.

My birthday month (I'm Liz and I'm a Leo, grrr).

Time marches on. 

Although it feels like it stopped at the beginning of the year.

The days are by no means dragging but it's like I'm treading water (not that I've ever tread actual water).

Despite some easing of restrictions nationally, I seem to be still mostly living life to the lockdown beat. 

There's food shopping once a week, dog walking every night, and whatever I feel like the rest of the time.

The garden's had more attention than it would usually and stuff is actually growing.  The rose display was the best yet and now the hydrangeas are putting on a good show.  The pond is still problematic. There was an emergency when the water stopped flowing, which had implications for the remaining fish, and I didn't have a clue what to do.  Cue much Googling and Youtube video watching and hey presto, pond pump located, cleaned and up and running once again.  I've found a local company who can undertake a proper maintenance and cleaning job on it and just need to persuade the now far from rational/ reasonable mister that this would be the best option (for me and the fish).  

Two conifers in the front garden had outgrown their space (I was forever reversing into one of them) and it was time to have them removed.  The resulting space has been strewn with grass seed and watered religiously.  At the moment it's looking a tad, erm, tufty but hopefully will fill out over time.  

Talking of filling out, if the size of my backside is anything to go by, there's been far too much baking going on.  Cakes, biscuits, flapjacks, buns, crumbles (using redcurrants gifted from my neighbour), bread.  You name it, my oven has delivered it.  I've called a halt for the time being and am trying to cook and eat sensibly  (definitely not on a diet, a less cereal, more fruit kind of thing, but I would like to become reacquainted with my jeans).

Sometimes there's a bit of knitting (I've been buying kits from here, three so far) and, despite an ongoing issue with maintaining focus, there's always a book on the go (I've just finished what is undoubtedly the best book I've read so far this year and which may even be one of my best reads ever) and I'm currently loving this.

Unfortunately, yoga hasn't been happening much at all after I injured a hamstring, probably as a result of stupidly over stretching (at my age, you'd think I'd know better). 

I've (somewhat nervously) left the house for reasons other than buying food.  There's been an appointment with my GP ('Wear a face mask'.  'I haven't got one yet'.  'Well, just cover your face with something'. The buff I found in a drawer seemed a better option than a tea towel) and then one with the oncologist ('I like your face mask.'  'Thanks. I've just bought it.  Cost me 45 quid.'  'Someone saw you coming.') at the hospital in another town (don't worry, I'm fine). 

I've been to the dental surgery three times after the crown (neither my dentist nor I will ever forget that particular day) from my tooth fell out (I'm never chewing gum again).  More recently, I've had my hair cut and coloured and I've braved the local park for socially distanced catch ups with a couple of lovely friends.  Yesterday, after a highly stressful start to the day, I got in the car, parked by the river, sat and read my book, people and dog watched.   It helped.  

Deprived of conversation most days, I'm probably still talking far too much to supermarket staff (and to the poor bloke who came to fix the washing machine) but, thankfully, since we've been part of his 'support bubble', the Boy has been able to pop over at weekends, providing some much appreciated company and chat (and help with the removal of bags and bags of garden rubbish).

Then, last Sunday, the littlest and his parents drove up from Manchester to join in the Boy's birthday celebrations (a picnic in the Priory followed by mint choc chip ice cream cake and champagne back here), the first time we've seen them since February. 

The soon to be 5 littlest has grown.  A lot.  And currently speaks with an American accent ( 'Hey, Mom!').

So, that's what I've been up to since I last posted.  Nothing wildly exciting.  Not all bad.  Ticking over. 

But I'd be lying if I said there wasn't a permanent knot in my stomach, that living with someone with dementia isn't testing me to my limits, that I wasn't missing my old life, that I wasn't wishing for the old rhythm.  

I know there'll be no neat and tidy finale to this seemingly interminable pandemic and that the way ahead is paved with oh so much uncertainty (difficult for those of us who like to plan and have adventures of one sort or another in the pipeline, to have something to look forward to).

Heeding the advice of the wellbeing gurus, I'm trying to focus less on what isn't possible and can't be planned for and more on what I have and can still do.  Being more comfortable with the uncomfortable.

It ain't easy.

Baby steps, baby steps.

 

A milestone

On 27th November 2009, I was admitted to hospital to undergo radical surgery for a gynaecological cancer.  One of the rare ones, malignant melanoma of the vulva.

On 27th November 2019, I travelled to London with the Boy for a short stay, to mark 10 years of being cancer free.

The intervening period hasn't been without its hiccups and there have been further surgeries to remove potential nasties.   But, I'm still here, still breathing, and so very very grateful (I'm well aware many women with a similar diagnosis are not so lucky).

So, that trip to London.  

The mister couldn't be included as dementia is really making its presence felt now and, apart from a couple of eventful days in Vienna at the start of the year, holidays have fallen by the wayside for us (how happy am I that we undertook those big, life changing adventures when we did).

The aim of the two days in the capital was simply enjoyment – celebrating life, escaping the challenges of the situation at home and pushing the boat out just a wee bit. 

We stayed here which was where we were having dinner on the first night and which was also the perfect springboard for everything we planned to fit in.  The Christmas decorations were a bit of alright, too.

A must-do on the list was a visit to the Royal Academy (conveniently over the road from The Ritz) and the Antony Gormley exhibition (although it's now closed, you can read more about it here).  It was wonderful, absolutely stunning, from the first encounter with the almost overlooked Iron Baby on the paving in the courtyard to the final smell and cold air of 'Host', the gallery floor covered in earth and salt water.  It's impressive.  It's thought provoking.  It's one of those experiences that stays with you a long time afterwards.  I loved it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Then, we packed in as much as we could, including the first mince pie of the season (the floodgates have been well and truly opened) and visits to the British Library (there was a lovely exhibition of children's literature and an excellent shop), Borough Market, Southwark Cathedral, Seven Dials, Soho (with a wander down my favourite Old Compton Street) and a very festive Fortnum and Mason.  Lots of walking, lots of hopping on and off tube trains, lots of food and coffee breaks.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 This really was the best way to celebrate such a significant milestone.

I love London, me.

 

The Eve Appeal is funding research into and raising awareness of the five gynaecological cancers.  You can find more information here.

 

I have never

…..learned to swim.  Yet somehow I produced a fish-like Boy who competed at national level.

 

…..mastered the handstand.  Or the cartwheel.  Or roller skates.

 

…..climbed a tree.   Fortunately for our garden, other people have and still do.

 

…..visited any part of the continent of Africa.  For a number of reasons, I probably never will.  Ditto Australia/Oceania.  Although isn't there a saying, 'Never say never'?

 

…..properly gotten over my fear of dogs.   Lovely Boo (who, by the way, seems to be showing some signs of improvement but there's another trip to see the vet later today) doesn't scare me but many other dogs do.  This can make for very interesting dog walks. 

 

…..willingly parked my car between two other vehicles.  Just. Can't. Do. It.  Even though said car is not an Aston Martin.  Even if it means I end up parking miles away from where I'm meant to be and having to get the bus in.

 

…..danced on a table.  I've danced on a variety of stages but a table?  None that I remember.

 

…..read an entire play by Shakespeare.  I was meant to read Romeo and Juliet as part of the English Literature syllabus at my girls' grammar school but I didn't get very far into it at all.  It was a similar story with Julius Caesar and other writers' works including  Wind in the Willows and The Grapes of Wrath.  I did read Cranford and Northanger Abbey, though many years after I was supposed to.  Needless to say, my GCE exam resulted in a big fat fail.

 

…..ridden on a motorbike.  Scooters, yes, and a particularly memorable ride on one whilst spending the summer on a Greek island, when a young donkey with an impressive set of gnashers inexplicably took a fancy to me, or, more accurately, my rear end.  It was traumatic.  For both of us.

 

…..driven an HGV.  I always fancied having a go with a Class 1 truck but, given my less than skilful reversing, it's probably best I didn't.

 

…..gotten a tattoo.  My dad and my much older brother each had one on their forearms, which used to fascinate me when I was little, but I never took the plunge.  None of my friends have one, either.  None that I can see, anyway.

 

…..dyed my hair a completely different colour.  I've always been blonde.  Various shades, some more flattering than others (I'll never forget the time I looked in the mirror in the dodgy hair salon and Myra Hindley stared back at me), and occasionally with a scattering of reddish hued highlights, but always blonde.

 

…..taken a holiday on my own.  I've travelled on my own but there has always been someone at the other end to join up with.  Unlike my brother who, apart from the several times he took me with him, was always a lone traveller.

 

…..lived on my own.  Even when I went to university the boyfriend-turned-mister tagged along and we shared a flat (well, it was more an attic space with a Baby Belling) in Leamington Spa for three years.

 

…..been as old as I am now.  I love birthdays, me.  Especially when they involve a vegan brownie topped and dripping with caramel cake.

 

Why I'll never be summer's number one fan

If you're a long time reader, you'll have gathered summer is not my favourite time of year.  Far from it.  I'm much more at home with cold weather (the colder the better), short dark days, long darker nights, snow, ice, sleet.  I love it all.  

Of course, I'm grateful to experience any of the seasons as it means I'm still here, still breathing.   But summer? 

(Warning:  You may want to grab a cuppa before reading further as I go on a bit.  Well, a lot.)   

The sun.  All that bright sunlight makes my head hurt and my eyes squint and sometimes brings on an ocular migraine which isn't enjoyable in the slightest, all that squiggliness of vision, the blind spots and flashes.  It also highlights my less than exemplary housekeeping skills.  Smears, splashes, dust, missed bits.  It's always there but it's all so much more obvious when the sun shines.  

The heat.  If it's sunny in summer it's usually hot.  Too hot to summon up the energy or enthusiasm to actually do much at all.  I can just about manage to drag myself to the nearest coffee shop for an iced coconut latte.  Or to the supermarket for essentials, like fly spray (see below). We delay the evening walk as long as possible, until there's just enough light to avoid stumbling into the trees and bushes.  Or misplacing the dog.

The nasty whiffs.  If it's hot, some people sweat. (No, not me; just occasional dampness on the forehead for yours truly.)  They sweat a lot. You get my drift.  The sweet scent of roses in public places it ain't.

The clothes.  I never know what to wear when summer comes around.  Being of a certain age, I'm way past baring body parts.  It's not that I'm bothered about what others might think, I just don't enjoy seeing all the sag and droop and being reminded of my advancing years.  So I just stick with the winter uniform of black jeans and military boots (unlike others who insist on sporting sandals, thereby exposing feet and toes which can't remember the last time they were treated to a pedicure), swapping the polo neck sweaters for shirts (always long sleeved, which may or may not get rolled to just above the wrist). 

The food.   Summer menus are just so difficult.  When the temperature is high, I don't really want to cook or bake at all (though I did manage a batch of raspberry and lemon cookies to take to a friend on one of the hottest days last week).  My repertoire of salads is very small and, let's face it,  there's only so much you can do with a pot of hummus.  Cereal consumption certainly tends to increase and decisions about dinner are mostly confined to toppings for toast (jam or Marmite on yours?) during the summer months chez nous.  Other people seem to enjoy barbecues at this time of year.  I know because there's an almost constant reek of smoke mixed with charred meat in the air. 

The garden.  In winter, I can just ignore it.  Come summer, there are always jobs to be done.  Pavings to be power washed, grass to be cut, plants to be watered, pond to be cleaned/topped up, fish to be fed, rose bushes to be dead headed.  Ours is only a small plot but one where it's perpetually autumn and there are never more dead leaves covering everything than during the summer months.  It's all largely down to the ginormous eucalyptus which seemed a good idea when we were planting 26 years ago but, with the endless dropping of huge amounts of little red leaves (which require thrice daily sweeping or gathering by hand whilst crawling on knees), is now the bane of my life.  Or at least one of them.

The noise.  Everyone is drawn outside in the warm weather so, even if you fancy a quiet half hour sitting with your book in the shaded summerhouse at the bottom of your garden, all you can hear are the constant sounds from others'.  Why is there a tendency to up the voice and radio volume when outdoors?   I wouldn't recognise the people who live in the houses at the back of ours (where not so very long ago there was a lovely field) if they knocked on the door but I know an awful lot about them and their musical tastes.  One set of neighbours bought their granddaughter a karaoke machine for her recent birthday (yes, it does work outside and yes, said granddaughter only seems to know the words to 'Happy birthday').  These are the same people who sit the other side of the fence and soak up the rays from early morning until late at night.  I kid you not, they must have skin like rhinos.   Then, every single day throughout the summer we're treated to round after annoying round of 'I'm Popeye the sailor man' as the ice cream van makes its way through the estate.  And then does another circuit in case you missed it the first time or fancy a second Mr Whippy.  Drives. Me. Mad.

The hay fever.  I never suffered as a child (well, there was a distinct lack of pollen in the slum clearance area I grew up in, though we did have scented geraniums in pots on top of the frozen food freezer in our shop) but, boy oh boy, I do now.  Streaming eyes, which also itch until I want to gouge them out, along with sneezing and a constantly dripping nose (not particularly welcome during downward dog or when both hands are employed to pack groceries at the supermarket checkout), are the order of the day.  My favourite summer accessory is a natty little box of Kleenex man-size tissues. 

The makeup.  I wear makeup every day.  Not much and never mascara.  But I really really can't go without my security blanket. Eyeliner.  Which in summer inevitably runs in charcoal hued rivulets down my cheeks because of the streaming eyes.  Not the look I aim for though maybe The Pagliacci will be the next beauty trend. Littlest is practising, 'cos you never know.

The flies.  They're not at all like those sweet furry little bees going about their bee business and they're every bliddy where.  Just the sound of one whizzing past my left earhole or banging into a window makes me feel a tad nauseous.  Because we all know what flies are attracted to (and where they've probably been lingering before deciding to pay you a visit). 

The traffic.  There's no point driving anywhere in the summer because you can bet your sweet bippy that everyone else will be heading in the same direction.  And even if you do decide to pop to your favourite beach or the big park down the road or the market town just over the county border, you can't find a parking space when you eventually arrive. Because the world and his wife will have beaten you to it.

The sleeping.  Or, more accurately, the not sleeping.  An airless, warm bedroom despite the wide open windows, fighting the summer weight duvet, constant tossing and turning, do not make for even a half decent night's kip.

The bites.  Not a summer has gone by where I haven't been a tasty snack for some member or other of the insect family, despite all the body covering clothes.  The little blighters have a knack of getting inside shirts and jeans and even socks and I react badly, ending up with red, sore, saucer sized bites.  One time, a nibble on my ankle caused my foot to swell to the size of, well, two feet.  As an aunt (not, I admit,  my favourite) used to say when I was a little girl, 'What do you expect?  They go for the rotten meat.'

But it isn't all doom and gloom.  Summer's great for…………… hmmm, sorry, can't think of anything right now.

Oh, I do love winter, me.