Singing in the rain

It is raining heavily outside, but at least my neck is not stiff this morning, the new pillows proving to be a good investment. Norman trots heroically through the downpour to do his duty and then takes station by the hall radiator to watch me cook breakfast. We are due to meet Felicity at the Poppy Seed this morning and therefore need to be about our business by nine o' clock, fortunately this leaves time to browse the guardian over coffee before showering, dressing and driving to Cherry. For the first time this year, as far as I can recall, it is too wet to venture on to the Westwood, and so the dogs and I just do a circuit of the village. I am dressed against the weather and carrying a large golf umbrella, which, with three dogs on their leads, is quite a juggling exercise. The dogs and I communicate through body language and telepathy, so they seem to accept that this exceptionally wet day is not one to be off the lead chasing rabbits and squirrels. The vividness of the colours of leaves, berries and flowers in the low light of a rainy day always pleases and surprises me, as does the sense that the foul weather has rendered the streets the private domain of my dogs and I. The only other pedestrians we see are other dog walkers, who all seem remarkable cheerful in the face of their adversity, in marked contrast with car drivers, who all seem to want to be somewhere else and to get there quickly. While we walk, I think about my friend Leslie, I suspect his real problem is facing the existential tangibility of impending death, now that he has turned ninety. Old age, sickness and death are the inevitable terminus of life but our outlook on this dismal prospect can make such a difference. When I was diagnosed with cancer, almost ten years ago now, I thought how nice it would be to live through another summer, to wear my shorts and sandals and feel the sun on my back. That gift has been granted, many times over but the real choice towards the end of one's life, if not before, is to either give thanks for another day and wonder how it can be put to good use, or to wonder if it may be our last and to shrivel in fear at any sign of the slightest symptom. Perhaps that is a little too black and white, but ultimately our outlook is either one of faith, or of doubt. If I had a family motto, it would probably be, "so far, so good," I hope my optimism survives my eventual demise! We complete our walk, gathering treasure from each of the three dogs, and depositing the same, in bins around the village, before returning Dolly and Teddy to Pip and drying Norman on a large, green army towel and then setting him on the back seat of the car for the trip to Beverley. We park at Saint John's and walk the two hundred yards to the Poppy Seed, Normy's towel stowed in a Tesco "bag for life", which will scandalise Felicity, who fought a vigorous, but losing, campaign against their store coming to town. She is sat reading the Yorkshire Post between mouthfuls of toasted teacake, as we arrive at the cafe, there is only one other customer, everyone else deterred by the deluge. I dry Norman again and settle him on my knee and then drink tea and chat to Felicity for an hour. She says she meant to send copies of her poetry anthology to her friends on the creative writing courses he did many years ago, but has filed away their names and cannot recall where she has filed them. I suggest we send the poems out into the world and track their peregrinations on the Internet, as someone did with books a few years ago. I even offer to leave several copies in Leeds Bradford and Schiphol airports on my trip next week. Felicity quite likes the idea and wonders how far the poems may travel before Xmas. The rain is relentless, so I leave Norman with her and fetch the car to the cafe and drive her back to Albert Terrace. It means driving the whole way round the one way system, but saves her getting soaked and perhaps slipping. We arrive back in Tickton for eleven thirty and I decide to do some outstanding admin and have lunch before swimming at two thirty. After giving Normy some dry dog food, I download the boarding slips for my flight and then fit the new ink cartridge to my printer, the old one having expired, only to discover that I had bought a colour pack. I decide to try anyway, but the bar codes are illegible, so I shall have to buy a black ink cartridge as well later. Lunch is spaghetti and the last of the white asparagus I bought for Leslie, light but adequate before my swim. After lunch, I book my parking at Leeds Bradford, which cost £38, not too bad in these days of hammering travellers at every opportunity. It is still raining heavily as I drive into Beverley, avoiding the main road and using the single track route adjacent to the river, where huge puddles have formed, it takes a while, as I have to give way to oncoming traffic three or four times, but it is still a lot quicker than the main road. I arrive at the Leisure centre for two thirty and suddenly wonder whether I collected my trunks from the radiator in the bathroom. I didn't and as they almost certainly won't allow me to skinny dip and there isn't time to drive back home and collect them before swimming lessons start at a quarter to four, plans have to change. Simone Weil's "Gravity and Grace", is waiting for my collection at the library and I need a new ink cartridge from Tesco, as well as visiting Leslie. I phone him from the supermarket after collecting my book and surprise, surprise, he has had another medical emergency. He felt unwell again last night and called the emergency doctor, who unable to find anything wrong, referred him to his GP, who in turn under pressure from Leslie agreed to refer him to his cardiologist tonight, as long as Leslie saw him privately. ( the NHS already haven taken a big enough hit, and Leslie can afford it). His appointment is at six, so I drive to Molescroft to visit him, arriving around three fifteen. Leslie is waiting for me and seems fine, his colour is good and his breathing normal, but his body language is very defensive, he talks to me with his arms folded in the shape of a cross against his chest. I keep the conversation light and talk about anything except health matters, family, friends and the approach of Xmas. Leslie tells me he wants to rest before his trip to the cardiologist, so I leave at four and drive home. The rain has finally stopped and there is a splendid sunset to the west, Norman is wagging his tail in anticipation of dinner when I open the door, but I make him wait until five and fit the new ink cartridge and finally print my boarding passes, before opening a tin for him. My niece, Rachel, phones, to tell me she has been offered a marketing job with stagecoach and doesn't know whether to take it. In the current economic climate, it is a no brainer, but she just wanted me to tell her so and to congratulate her on getting fixed up again so quickly, after being made redundant last week. I am really pleased for her, she deserves to do well. Later Normy and I walk round the village in the dark, the sky has cleared, the stars are out and there is a bright half moon hanging in the sky. It's reflection mirrored back in the large puddles that festoon the village paths and this fortunately prevents me from stumbling blindly into them, which I may have done without the moonlight. It is also much colder, we play our usual game of "praise and pat", as we head home down Green Lane and are both glad to regain the cosy warmth of our bungalow, my glasses instantly steaming up in the warmth. I heat up the plate of Canneloni that I had stored in the fridge, accompanied by a crusty baguette and a glass of Cabernet Shiraz. After dinner I read until bedtime.