Spring forward!

 

Spring forward!

Our clocks went forward at 1:00 am on Sunday 30^th March, according to Gov.UK. Some said the time change would occur at 2:00 am.

The following day is often peppered with comments like, ‘This time yesterday it was three ‘clock and now it’s four o’clock. It does feel strange.’

Others might say, ‘Do we gain an hour or lose one?’ Well, neither – there are still twenty-four hours in a day; we’ve just rearranged our observation of them. If we’re Jewish or Muslim, we might tinker round the edges a little so that religious observance and prayers are not too disruptive to daily life.

Daylight Saving Time (DST) was first considered, rather jocularly, by Benjamin Franklin in 1784, but in 1907 a British builder began advocating for a method of using the longer summer daylight hours more effectively. His suggestion was overruled by Parliament in 1908.

In the same year, forward-thinking Port Arthur in Ontario adopted DST, but the practice was not implemented on a large scale until Germany decided to economise on coal usage in 1916 during the First World War. Most of the Allies followed suit.

At present, about two thirds of the world do not embrace DST. The countries that do are mainly in Europe, the USA, Canada, and parts of Australasia. In the USA, exceptions to Daylight Saving Time are American Samoa, Guam, Northern Mariana Islands, Puerto Rico, the Virgin Islands, Hawaii, and most of Arizona, apart from the Navajo people.

So, just one third of the world goes through the six-monthly alteration of clocks and the temporary confusion they create. One year, when our children were very young, Gillian, the eldest, had been invited to a birthday party. She arrived an hour early! Her absent-minded parents had simply not realised that the clocks were changing.

Today, of course, most people don’t even have to think about winding forward or back – computers, ovens, watches, iPads, ‘phones, do it automatically. I don’t know if modern cars do, but our cars aren’t and don’t, so we spend half the year adding or subtracting an hour from the display we see, depending on whether or not we remembered, or bothered, to adjust the clock ‘last time.’

So, officially, it’s summer. I hope the weather realises and gives us some pleasant, sunny, warm (but not too warm!) days.

Stonehenge

 

Stonehenge

                         Changing the clocks at Stonehenge

Jonquil, Daffodil or Narcissus?

 

Jonquil, Daffodil or Narcissus?

The common botanical name for all these lovely spring flowers is Narcissus.

Daffodils may be perfumed, but their scent is delicate and, to my nose, green. They have one flower per stem. They come in many shades, from white, through yellow to peach and pink. Often their trumpets are a brighter colour.

Jonquils are strongly perfumed and carry many flowers on each stem. They are seen in all shades of yellow and the trumpets, or corona, are shorter than in daffodils, but, like them, contrast with the outer petals.

Although daffodils and jonquils are both classified as narcissus, they are different species. Nonetheless, they will probably always be referred to as ‘daffodils,’ glorious harbingers of spring.

 I noticed a bent stem of jonquils in the garden and brought it into the house. It smelt wonderful. My photographic skills do not do it justice, and there is no way of capturing the scent, but I think it is beautiful. 

Nose job

 

Nose job

Sailing nose. 

                                What does that phrase mean to you? A nose job, or rhinoplasty, to give it its official name, is a surgical procedure to reshape the bone and cartilage, often undertaken to improve its appearance. Sometimes, it’s carried out to correct breathing problems.

 My husband and son have both had the procedure, for health reasons, following sports injuries. I don’t remember Barry having a huge dressing on his nose, though I suppose he must have, but I do remember Gareth’s cast or splint or whatever it was called. I also remember that one of the dogs chewed it up, obviously not while it was on his face. The surgeon was not entirely delighted, but did see the funny side of it, as a sort of variation of ‘the dog ate my homework.’ Gareth was a young teenager at the time.

Barry had a minor nose job – that is a minor operation on his nose - at the beginning of January to excise a ‘rodent ulcer,’ known as a basal cell carcinoma. When the results were published, he was told that he would have to return at a later date to have another ‘excavation’ (my word, not the surgeon’s)

He waited at the hospital for a couple of hours as a day patient before he was seen. The procedure took an hour and he arrived home  later. He has to go back in four weeks to see the consultant again. It’s his own fault for being so fair-skinned!

The dogs were alert all afternoon, pricking up their ears every time they heard, 'Motion detected on the drive.' 

When Barry eventually arrived, they were very excited, greeted him warmly and then fell asleep, all the tension having exhausted them. 

Is he really here? He's been away a long time.

He is here! At last!

Can we climb over?

We have never encouraged our dogs to jump over gates in the house, though they could easily do so. The baby gates allow visitors to see them and them to see visitors without incident. They soon calm down - visitors and dogs. 

Cheese

 

Cheese

                                            Casu marzu

Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

WARNING

Do not read further if you have a weak stomach.

Cheese comes in many different consistencies and flavours. Some are mild and nutty, gentle on the palate. Others have a strong and salty flavour, while some may be acidic or ammoniac. Sometimes, fruit or herbs are added. Cheese may be soft, hard, or crumbly. With around two thousand varieties of cheese available worldwide, there is bound to be one to please even the most refined taste.

Cheese is usually made from the milk of cows, sheep, goats, or buffalo but occasionally other mammals, like horses, camels, yaks, or reindeer, provide the milk.

I had never thought that cheese might be considered unsafe, unless for those with an allergy, but there is such a cheese. It is a Sardinian delicacy called ‘Casu marzu,’ designated ‘the world’s most dangerous cheese’ or ‘the forbidden cheese. Casu marzu means ‘rotten cheese.’

This pungent sheep’s milk cheese is dependent on the cheese fly, Piophila casei, for its unique character. The cheese starts life in the usual way and resembles pecorino. Cheese fly larvae are introduced to the cheese and proceed to digest it, which leads to fermentation. This results in the cheese becoming smooth, even sometimes semi-liquid.

When the cheese has reached the zenith of its maturing, it is cut open and served with bread and a robust red wine. The sight of wriggling maggots may deter some people from eating it. Those who are not put off are advised to wear glasses and put their hands underneath their noses in case the maggots launch themselves into nasal cavities or eyes. Remember, they’ve been working away in the dark and the light disturbs them!

People who still wish to try the cheese, but without the maggots, can put a piece of it in a paper bag, and once the sound of larvae beating themselves against the paper ceases, because the maggots have suffocated and are now dead, they can eat the cheese.

Should the cheese be found to have no live maggots when opened, it must be discarded as it is now considered toxic.

It is illegal to sell the cheese and is banned in most countries, for fear that live larvae could survive the digestive process and create problems in the gut.

There are several other cheese varieties produced in similar ways.

Messages

 

Messages

I watched ‘Adolescence’ recently. It addresses the effects of the toxic masculinity, misogyny, and opposition to feminism promoted by Andrew Tate which are reflected on websites, blogs, and other online forums, and which is affecting the way young people conduct relationships. The effects are further enhanced by messages sent to and about people, becoming another way to bully someone. It was superbly acted and was deeply distressing to watch. I did not enjoy watching it, and the questions and problems the drama raised remained with me and disturbed my sleep for a few nights.

Nonetheless, I think that anyone who has any contact with adolescent and pre-adolescent children should make the effort to watch it.

I understand, from my twelve-year-old grandson, that it is being widely discussed among children in school. He is currently watching it with my daughter and separately with his elder stepsister. My instinct is that it should be screened in schools, in carefully controlled episodes, followed by group discussion.

An interesting facet of the production focused on the use of emojis and made me question my own use of them. I blithely scatter emojis hither and yon without any thought to the deeper meaning they may carry. Of course, I am not texting impressionable adolescents, but I have often wondered about some of the more obscure emojis I see in their text messages.

There is a ‘red pill’ that references the film ‘The Matrix.’ It indicates an awakening to the ‘truth’ and a call for action by the ‘manosphere.’  The red pill receiver/sender sees the world ‘as it truly is’ and understands the malign influence of women.

The dynamite emoji refers to an exploding red pill to indicate that someone is an incel. An incel is an involuntary celibate, made that way because women are to blame for a male’s lack of success in engaging with females.

This supposed failure is explained by the 100 emoji, which claims that eighty per cent of women are attracted to only twenty per cent of men. Therefore, the 100 emoji is another way of telling a boy/man that he’s an incel, and that most women are off limits to him, so he will always be an incel.

Heart emojis are innocuous, one would think. (This one did, anyway!) They come in different pretty colours, like flowers, but in the manosphere each one carries a message. Red, of course, means love, but purple indicates lust. Yellow reveals that the sender is interested and asks if the recipient is likewise engaged, and pink says, ‘interested, but not in sex.’ An orange heart tells the recipient he is going to be fine, whatever that means.

There are other emojis with different meanings and some relate to the procurement of illegal drugs, although these are not addressed in ‘Adolescence.’

We cannot protect our children from all harm, but it is important to try and understand what pressures they are under and how and by whom they may be being influenced. Above all, we should be listening. Sometimes, children only express a worry or a concern in passing, as though it’s not really of any great import. Sometimes, it’s a shouted insult that indicates that not all is well.

I shall watch ‘Adolescence’ again. I have youngsters in my family who will be engaged (already are, in the case of my twelve-year-old grandson and great-granddaughter) in the world of texting and Snapchat and TikTok and various other modes of communication. Cutting them off from their phones and iPads will only isolate them and make them resentful. It could even turn them into targets for the crueller or weaker of their peers.

We welcome our babies with such joy. What a shame they have to learn to navigate our often wicked world. Doesn’t every generation have fears for its young?

 

 

Welcome to the world!

Welcome to the world!

Another member of the family made her entrance on Friday.

Hailey Evelyn, little sister to two-year-old Melia, was born on 21^st March. She had made a few attempts to become independent of her mummy for several weeks, but was persuaded to stay in situ for a little longer.

She is now at home with the rest of her family, still unfurling like a leaf and completely helpless.

 She is the youngest of six grandchildren to our eldest daughter, and thus our sixth great-grandchild.

Murder most strange

 

Murder most strange

There were fourteen place settings. The hostess had served fish and on every plate there remained skeletons with varying amounts of flesh still clinging to them.

From her position at the head of the table, the inspector surmised that the victim was the lady of the house. Her hospitality had been poorly repaid, he mused.

It was clear that there had been a hasty exodus from the dining table. Crumpled napkins had been dropped on the floor, a couple of chairs had been knocked askew, and a wine glass had spilt its contents – red wine, the inspector observed, with snobbish distaste. Had the guests departed before or after the attack, and where were they all now?

Following his preliminary assessment of the scene, the inspector approached the body to seek further insight into the murder.  The woman, middle-aged, grey-blonde, was slumped sideways in her chair. A scarlet flower bloomed on the left side of her head, a rose of rich, dark red. The inspector swallowed hard. He had seen many such scenes before, but always the bile rose in his throat at the sickly, sweet smell.

A lemon wedge - evidently the victim had not squeezed it over her fish – was splashed with red. Her fork was smeared with crimson and – yes! There were clear fingerprints on it and on the plate. So, death had not been instantaneous. Had she grabbed the fork in a vain attempt to fight back? If so, who had replaced it so neatly, so grotesquely, next to the plate?

The inspector scratched his head and decided he’d better try to locate the rest of the party. He opened the door opposite the table and found himself in a large, square kitchen. It was crowded with people, all smartly dressed and obviously expecting him. He nodded at them, not sure what he should do next.

‘Well,’ said a tall, thin man. ‘What are your thoughts?’

A murmur of voices added, ‘Who do you suspect?’ and ‘It wasn’t me,’ and ‘Confess, Thomas.’

The inspector gazed at them and grinned suddenly. ‘It was very convincing,’ he said.

The ‘victim’ appeared behind him, smiling. ‘Sorry about the smell,’ she said. ‘I know you loathe tomato ketchup, but we had to make it look authentic. Come along now and have a stiff drink and join us for the rest of our meal.’

Everybody laughed and made their way back to the dining room. Murder Mystery dining events had become very popular recently.

Carrots!

 

Carrots!

‘Carrot’ is one of the words our dogs understand. When the cats have their elevenses or their threeses, the dogs are pacified with chews or carrots. Both dogs take their chews to their beds in the sitting room, but when they have carrots, Roxy prefers to eat hers in the kitchen, while Gilbert proudly carries his to his bed.

This morning, they had carrots, but look at what was hidden among them. What is this misshapen root? Is it a hand, pointing to some unknown entity? Might it be a mediaeval building, with towers and an annex?

. It wasn’t part of a ‘wonky vegetables’ selection. I don’t know how it passed quality control if there is such a thing. It was good, though, crunchy and carroty. Gilbert looked quite nonplussed as I munched it.

A repost to raise a smile

 

A repost to raise a smile

I don’t know where I found the following joke, but it made me smile. However, if you are blonde, or easily offended, or both, it might be better to skip this post.

With apologies to all the blondes I know and love . . . male and female.

 

Blonde on a plane

A plane was flying to Toronto when a blonde in economy class got up moved to the firstclass section and sat down.

The flight attendant asked to see her ticket. She then told the blonde that she had paid for economy class and would have to return there.

The blonde replied, ‘I’m blonde, I’m beautiful, I’m going to Toronto and I’m staying right here.’

The flight attendant went to the cockpit and told the pilot and co-pilot that there was a blonde bimbo sitting in first class who had an economy ticket but wouldn’t move back to her seat.

The co-pilot went to talk to the blonde. He explained that she would have to return to economy because she had only paid for economy.

The blonde replied, ‘I’m blonde, I’m beautiful, I’m going to Toronto and I’m staying right here.’

The co-pilot returned to the cockpit and told the pilot that he should probably have the police waiting to arrest this blonde woman who wouldn’t listen to reason when they land in Toronto.

The pilot said, ‘You say she’s a blonde? I’m married to a blonde, I’ll handle this, I speak blonde.’

He left the cockpit and spoke quietly to the blonde. She said, ‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ and got up and returned to economy.

The flight attendant and the co-pilot were astonished and asked the pilot what he had said.

‘I told her, first class isn’t going to Toronto.’

 

The targe

 

The targe

                                               Image source

The targe was a circular shield used in battle by Scottish Highlanders. It was the main means of defence in battle until it was banned after the Battle of Culloden in 1746.Frequently, the central boss held a removable steel spike, which proved to be a lethal weapon at close quarters.

Flora MacCleod knew all this because she had grown up knowing the history of her clan. The targe in the photograph had been in her family’s possession for generations and there was now no way of proving its provenance as a MacLeod shield, though everyone believed it to be so.

At the centre of the boss was a long rope of hair. As a child, Flora had been allowed to handle it occasionally and had always marvelled at its silky softness. She was a romantic girl and imagined it to have come from a well-loved horse, though it was too fine to have come from a Highland pony.

On her parents’ death, Flora inherited the targe. It had been wrapped in MacLeod tartan, stored in the attic, and looked dusty and neglected when she uncovered it. Reverentially she cleaned it, turning it over in her hands and admiring the workmanship that had gone into its creation. The deerskin on the back was worn but still intact. The leather on the face had been skilfully tooled and then strengthened and decorated with bras studs. She wondered if there had ever been a spike on the boss. Now that it belonged to her, she could investigate it thoroughly.

Flora twisted the screw that secured the cord to the brass centre plate. She wondered if there might be some information under the plate to tell her a little more about this lovely thing. She hoped for a maker’s mark or a receipt.

It was hard to release the cord from its fastening and Flora’s fingers were sore by the time she managed to free it. Her breath caught in her throat as she glimpsed a piece of paper tucked inside the boss. As she carefully teased it out, she wondered if she were the first person to see this since the targe had last been used in battle.

Excitedly, she unfolded the paper but what she read made her grow pale with horror. Feverishly, she wrapped the targe in the tartan and resolved to dispose of it. She considered selling it but supposed that, even with its history, few collectors would wish to buy a shield displaying an ornamental human scalp.

            Targe presented by the Duke of Perth to Charles Edward Stuart,                                     'Bonnie Prince Charlie'
                                                Image copurtesy Wikimedia Commons

The Blue Cross and PDSA

 

The Blue Cross and PDSA

While acknowledging that ownership of pets should only be undertaken by those who can afford to look after them, it must be understood that family circumstances can change. A pet becomes a loved and treasured member of the family, forming special relationships with different people, or perhaps with just one person.

 When a family falls on hard times, they will do their best to keep their pet. These days, there are food banks not only for people but for animals, too.

In 1897 a group of animal lovers formed ‘Our Dumb Friends League’ to care for working horses in London and encourage kindness to animals. It later became known, in 1958, as The Blue Cross.

In 1900 the society bought the first horse ambulance to carry injured horses to hospital. A year later, it lent sun hats to horses in hot weather to keep them cool. In 1906, the first Blue Cross hospital was opened in Victoria. It has never refused treatment to injured pets.

The Blue Cross Fund was instituted in 1912 to help animals during the Balkan War (1912-1913) It also helped animals in both World Wars (1914-1918, 1939-1945)The Blue Cross continues to care for sick and injured animals and to support their owners.

The People’s Dispensary for Sick Animals of the Poor, now known simply as the PDSA, was founded in 1917, during the First World War, by Maria Dickin. When visiting the poor people in the East End of London, she was appalled by the poverty she saw, and the sick and injured pets whose owners could not afford to feed them or pay for treatment for their ailments. She set up a clinic in a basement in Whitechapel to provide free care for dogs and cats in need. The demand was so great that she soon required larger premises and eventually developed a taskforce of mobile vans to travel round the country, dispensing treatment, and medicines.

Today, the PDSA is known as the vet charity for pets in need. It works to keep people and their pets together, believing that poverty should not be an obstacle to owning and loving a pet. It also takes a role in educating children and the wider public about the care and welfare of animals. It has forty-eight veterinary hospitals across the country and those in need can apply to receive free or low-cost treatment for their sick or injured pets.

Maria Dickin spent her life campaigning for the dignified and humane treatment of animals. In 1943, she instituted the Dickin Medal, the animal Victoria Cross for animals who served the country during war.

 

 

Crystal Palace

 

Crystal Palace

Susannah moved to Crystal Palace late last year and sent some photographs of Crystal Palace Park, usually referred to simply as Crystal Palace. They awoke some memories in her cousin, Pamela, who remembers walking past the dinosaurs weekly as she and her brother and sister travelled to Crystal Palace for training. They were part of the pre-Olympic swimming squad.

The dinosaurs in Crystal Park Palace were unveiled in 1854 and are now Grade I listed. They were the first full-scale reconstructions of these animals.

Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

Grade 1 listed buildings head the list for protection and preservation and are considered to be of ‘exceptional interest’ for their historical, architectural, and national importance. The dinosaurs share this distinction with Buckingham Palace, the Cenotaph, and the Houses of Parliament, among many more. Had Crystal Palace itself not been destroyed by fire in 1936, it, too, would have become a listed building.

There are around thirty sculptures, designed by Benjamin Waterhouse Hawkins (1807-1894) with the guidance and expertise of the palaentologist Sir Richard Owen (1804-1892) Not all the sculptures are dinosaurs – there are amphibians, and mammals, too, like the long-extinct Irish Elk.

The models were constructed according to the knowledge at the time, and thus the Megalosaurus was depicted as a quadruped, when later scientific discoveries found that it was bipedal.

Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

Naturally, wind and weather have affected the sculptures and repairs have been sympathetically conducted by skilled craftsmen. The Megalosaurus has had new teeth – twenty-two of them – a new nose and lower jaw, all carefully matched to the colour of the original.

Work on regenerating the park is due to begin this year, 2025.

Roxy visits the vet

 

Roxy visits the vet

 It looks as though Roxy has a strange beard - it's actually Jellicoe's tail!

Our dogs love going to see the vets because treats are involved. They are expert at adopting soft, pleading-eyed, irresistible expressions and their tactics are always successful.

On Monday, it was Roxy’s turn to visit the vets. She had done something to her right hind leg and was intermittently limping and whimpering. It didn’t affect her appetite, and she was not in great pain, but one of her toes was sitting at a strange angle. It transpired that she had split the nail, and it had to be removed.

When Barry returned without her, Gilbert was most disturbed, looking at the porch door and crying softly from time to time. He cheered up when he went out for a walk, and came home, panting, damp, and pleased with himself.

Roxy’s homecoming in the afternoon was greeted with enthusiastic sniffs and tail wags. The nail had been split down to the quick and had to be removed under general anaesthetic. It is a quite common occurrence. She has come home with antibiotics and painkillers and is now sporting a multi-coloured bandage and a disposable glove over the paw. She won’t be out walking for a while yet.

Roxy looks rather untidy as her winter coat is being shed.

A close-up reveals that the bandage is patterned with little pink pigs with curly tails.

It is only when you have animals that you realise how expensive medical procedures are, both for animals and humans. As an indication, the cost for this process was £523.00. Drugs are extra! 

There is no NHS for animals. It is wise, therefore, to have pet insurance to cushion the blow.

Chilly nights

 

Chilly nights

                        Top to bottom,  Jellicoe, Roxy and Herschel

Jellicoe and Herschel like to snuggle up with Roxy, particularly if the temperature is dropping at bedtime.

Roxy is like a large hot water bottle, except that she retains her heat. She jumps up onto the bed and quickly settles down next to me. Very soon she is joined by Jellicoe, who squeezes in between us. He carefully grooms her head, before relaxing into a limp, almost boneless, bundle of warmth.

Herschel lies at the other side of Roxy, purring until he lapses into loudly snoring sleep. Thus, they spend the chilly nights, wrapped in each other’s body warmth. At some point the cats will each depart the bed to prowl and yowl throughout the house, leaving Roxy to stretch and sleep on.

Gilbert, meanwhile, sleeps in the wardrobe, in his own little den.

Paramedic mice

 

Paramedic mice

    I read an article recently about a mouse performing a form of CPR on a fellow mouse struck down by illness or accident. Naturally, an experiment (or series of experiments) was conducted to observe such behaviour more closely.

Researchers drugged mice to incapacitate them and watched as the paramedic mice reacted. They pawed the victims, licked them, and pulled their tongues out of their mouths to clear their airways.

It is a phenomenon that has been observed in other mammal species. Something that human beings have to learn and be trained to use seems to come naturally to other animals.

Silk stockings?

 

Silk stockings?

Compression stockings do look rather like the silk stockings that were worn on special occasions by Regency ladies in Jane Austen’s time. That lady reportedly prized silk stockings above those made from the more usual cotton or wool, preferring to have fewer stockings, so that those she did own could be of superior quality. It is said that she even washed them herself, not trusting them to the possibly rougher handling of a professional washerwoman.

Today, silk stockings are available at a cost of between £5.99 and £34.00. Most women probably opt for nylons these days, but what do I know? I’m not ‘most women’ and have no right to speak for others.

 I try to kid myself that compression stockings are attractive as well as functional, but fail miserably. It really doesn’t matter, as no-one sees them but me. Well, my husband sees them when he hauls them off me before I have a shower.

Barry would be the first to admit that nursing is not his natural forte. He is very encouraging, but not the sort to mop a fevered brow, though I must admit that approach would drive me insane. He is sympathetic, but robust and practical, a ‘fresh air would do you a power of good’ sort of person. To be honest, that’s my attitude, too, as well as, ‘Have you drunk enough water today?’

If removing the stockings is taxing, putting them back on is a trial of an entirely different kind. We tried the plastic bag system, whereby the foot is encased in a carrier bag and the stocking is eased over the top. The idea is that then the bag can be pulled away from the toe end, which is open, and the rest of the garment can be pulled up to the knee. Carrier bags are awfully thin these days and tear very easily. We abandoned that method.

Talcum powder was tried. Everything smelt beautiful, but the stocking remained fairly immovable.

Finally, brute force was used. The stocking was rolled down to the extremity of the garment, stretched as widely as possible, then fed over the toes and eventually over the heel. Barry wondered why I was yelping, until I told him his knuckles were very hard. He understood when he saw the bruise on my little toe, bless him.

Meanwhile, I am making haste slowly. To anyone facing surgery I would advise making sure you have an excellent physiotherapist. My surgeon was superb, and enjoyed the challenge my back presented – it was much tougher than he expected, and he was almost rubbing his hands with glee as he told me that - but, in common with most surgeons, once his part was done, recovery was my problem.  The physiotherapists understand the reality and bemoan the fact that surgeons don’t see the long post-operative process.

My physio, Liz, is a sports physiotherapist, married to an ex-professional rugby player, and she’s wonderful – encouraging, with a pleasing sense of humour, masses of commonsense, and a wealth of experience. She and my surgeon know each other well, and she recommended him to me.

Liz was Barry’s physio, too. When he had his knees replaced eight years ago, it was our dentist who recommended the surgeon, and that was an excellent fit, too. The medical world is a small one, indeed.

Thank you!

 

Thank you!

                    Thank you all for your lovely messages of support.

The fog is lifting now, and I am able to think beyond the next round of tablets. I have learnt the hard way that it is not sensible to reduce painkillers too soon! My appetite is returning, too, but one small meal a day is quite sufficient.

Following the cortisone injections in December, which had only a marginal effect on my back pain, I had a lumbar decompression in February. It was either that or remain more or less housebound. Clearly, that was not something I wished for. I enjoy walking with Barry and the dogs and intend to resume it as soon as I can.

Meanwhile, Barry is doing a splendid job of keeping the house running. The laundry is accomplished at lightning speed, much more efficiently than I do it, but there is an ongoing problem. What he regards as dry feels damp to me and I know that if it is put away in that condition, it will begin to smell musty. I cannot tell if I am super sensitive to the dryness or otherwise of the washing. Hence, the fireguard is festooned with garments ‘airing.’ It’s a good thing we don’t have any visitors! Any we are likely to have will be family and entirely familiar with our slovenly ways.

I can clean sinks and loos and work surfaces, and Barry insists that he enjoys vacuuming and sweeping, cleaning the cat litter, organising the rubbish, preparing meals, walking the dogs. He has learnt to inject Jellicoe with insulin – that was the main thing worrying me when I went into hospital, although I was only in for one night. Hospitals like to discharge patients as quickly as possible, to reduce the risk of hospital-acquired infection, and in the belief that people recover more quickly in their own homes.

My son is due to have an operation on his hip in April, an injury caused by karate when he was a teenager. He is going in as a day patient – in at 7:00 a.m. and out in the late afternoon.

It seems to have been my family’s call to engage surgeons in different disciplines in the past few months. I may have forgotten one or two but they include appendicitis, (youngest daughter) torn ligaments, (youngest daughter and plumber son-in-law) testicular torsion, (oldest great grandson, 10 years old) shoulder (writer son-in- law) prostatectomy, colonoscopy, basal cell carcinoma (all Barry)

We normally manage to steer clear of sawbones, so I suppose it was our turn. We are grateful that we are usually fit, and by no means do we take our good health for granted, but thank the good genes our parents gave us.