Another rainy day in August

Wake at seven to a cloudy morning and make Brussels pate and Ryvita for breakfast for myself and Norman, breaking his up into dachshund size pieces, before taking my coffee into the Garden room to read the Independant on my iPad. Of late I have grown to prefer to eat breakfast without the radio on, enjoying the peaceful silence whilst I eat. Perhaps it's an age thing. I wash and dress in readiness for the trip to Cherry, but then notice it has come on to rain heavily. I decide I can profitably spend the morning catching up with some housework, as it is not possible to take the dogs out in this deluge. I strip the beds and put the dirty linen in the washing machine and am about to phone Pip, when the phone rings and it is her, the electricity was restored this morning, but the TV and central heating are refusing to work. I promise to come and see what I can do, as soon as I have put on clean sheets and duvet covers. I take Norman with me, in case the rain eases and we are able to take the dogs round the village. When we arrive, there are roadworks at the top of Two Riggs where the men have been digging, and I carry Normy under my arm, protected from the lashing rain by an old golf umbrella. Dolly and Teddy go bonkers when they see us, thinking we are about to set off to the Westwood. Pip repeats what she told me on the phone, that the TV and heating aren't working, and so I check the fuse box, but everything is OK, and the pilot light in the boiler is on. Turning my attention to the TV, it is apparent that the Sky box isn't working, eventually I find the plug for it amongst a cluster of others fitted to an adaptor and check its fuse, it looks OK, but I replace it anyway. To no effect, the adaptor has an anti-surge fuse, but it looks like the satellite box is stone dead. I have no luck either with the central heating and suspect some internal connection has been blown by the power outage. We have breakdown insurance with British Gas and so I ask Pip if she wants to call them out, but she says she will do it herself in a frosty tone and tells me I might as well leave. I call at Tesco on the way home to buy some Italian coffee, as I used the last for breakfast, and get back to Tickton for half past eleven. Even though it is still raining heavily, I walk Normy down past the snickett and onto Carr Lane, somewhat protected by the brolly, he hasn't been out since last night and I need to toilet him before I go for a swim. He does his business and then legs it for home eager for his warm dry basket, when we get in I dry him on an old green army towel and then give him a schmacko and check his water, before driving to the Leisure centre. The pool is fairly busy, but I spot Crispin in a training lane with only one other swimmer and slot in between them for my 400m freestyle warm up. Although my style is leisurely, it is also deceptively quick, at least compared to non-competitive swimmers. A chap in the next lane seems determined to pass me, but loses several metres with each turn, as I tumble and he doesn't. It is quite comical watching him thrash the water to draw level at the end of the length and then to turn and find me three metres ahead again. He runs out of steam after four or five lengths and gives up, whilst I maintain the same easy rhythm. I have just switched to backstroke, when we have to move to make way for the "wave machine", but by now the numbers in the pool are thinning, and the three of us, myself Crispin and a young woman, have the fast lane to ourselves. I don't really mind the aqua aerobics, other than their loud music, it is good for older people to exercise. Crispin and the girl leave and I am joined by a young lad, who looks about sixteen. I am now swimming fly and we come to an agreement that I will push off as he comes in. This works fine and I complete the 400 fly and then switch to medleys and complete these by one fifteen, by which time I have the lane to myself. So I warm down with lazy 200m backstroke and finally an even lazier 200m freestyle. When I arrive in the cafe, it is still raining outside, and I am out of oaties, so have to settle for just a pot of tea. Back home I have a pork chop defrosting and intend to make schnitzel, chips and salad when I get in. In the event, the rain has finally stopped and I manage to hang out my bedding on the line, before serving up lunch for three o'clock. Norman has some schnitzel and a few chips as well, but passes on the salad. For desert, I eat the remaining Bramley apple stewed in the microwave with an egg custard, (using half the egg mixture that I had beaten in order to coat the pork in breadcrumbs). A very enjoyable lunch, after which, I put my feet up for an hour before making a batch of fresh oaties with sultanas, then giving Norman his tin and later setting off for a walk. The rain has cleared, and just like last night, the sun is shining low in the West, but a strong Northerly wind is blowing and the temperature has dropped dramatically. I have changed out of my shorts and sandals and put on some jeans and shoes and am wearing a fleece for the first time since April. Because he didn't get out this morning, I take Norman past the bridge over the drain, which is now almost full with rain water, and into "almost straight wood". Amongst the trees it is sheltered and the pines have an aromatic resinous freshness, Normy skips along behind me checking the place for smells, a rabbit scampers to its burrow, but it's safe, Normy is too old and slow to catch anything, but if Teddy and Dolly had been here, the bunny's number would have been up! I keep checking that Norman is maintaining station behind me, particularly when we come out of the trees and the path forks, one leg to the village and the other round the fields. He has cataracts on both eyes and his world must look a bit blurry. We steadily make our way round the fields in the strong wind, skirting round puddles and with me occasionally stooping to pat and encouraging the old boy with lavish praise. Each time I do this, he wags his tail, runs a few yards and then waits to be patted again. One of the farmer's daughters comes past us on a chestnut mare and stops to say hello to him before cantering over the bridge and down the lane. As we get back towards the bungalow, his fan club of little girls run over from the green to give him a pat, he thrives on the attention. It is after seven when we get in, my washing is dry, so I bring it in, before putting on a load of whites. Norman snuggles down in his bed for the night and I make a pot of tea and some and join him in the Garden Room and read until bedtime. Pure escapism, Julian Stockwin's novel of the mutiny of the fleet at the Nore, the great fighting age of sail. To bed around eleven.