Mischief Night

Wake to the sound of Norman shaking himself awake in his basket, I look at my watch and it is seven o' clock, outside it is already light, so I yawn, stretch and then slowly get out of bed. Somehow my feet find my slippers and I shuffle to the bathroom and then open the door to the garden to let Normy out to relieve himself, the task completed he sprints back up the path and into the house in anticipation of breakfast. Food is the only thing that motivates him these days, unfortunately he is destined to dry dog food, as I am finishing the smoked salmon with Philadelphia cheese on rye toast for breakfast. He watches me intently as I eat, in case the fish morphs miraculously into bacon and sausage, but perhaps I am having an off day, so culinary miracles are hard to achieve. His eyes look at me, as if to say, "useless you are, always with you sausage, black pudding and bacon, impossible is!" I am becoming more and more convinced that Norman is some kind of Jedi Master and just kibitzing with me, as some kind of favour, not sure whether I am yet worthy to be his Paduan apprentice. He waves his paw, and I find myself saying, "shower and go to church, you don't need to take him for a walk in the freezing cold. Move along now". The force has a powerful effect on the weak minded. I arrive at Saint John's at five minutes to nine, find a pew, compose myself, pray and then locate the opening hymn in the hymnal. Our trainee organist is back from holiday this week and doesn't hit a bum note all morning. The hymns are old staples and the congregation in good voice, so it is a lovely service. Father Roy gives a sermon about Jesus telling good people they were close to heaven, but, by implication, not quite there yet. The missing ingredient, unique to the New Testament, is love of others as oneself. Roy's sermons are electric, quiet, sincere and passionate. As a practising Buddhist and a Roman Catholic, I search for the intuitive understanding of the truth of these two great teachers, which lies beyond the scope of the rational mind and can only be reached by the grace of faith. A simple pragmatic test, for me at least, is that faith energises, whilst doubt enervates, although they are two sides of the same coin. In the face of uncertainty beyond human understanding, other than the eternal certainties of old age, sickness and death, how might we conduct ourselves? Trusting in providence and treating fellow pilgrims kindly, and just seeing how life unfolds, seems to work for me. I have no rational explanation for the beauty and truth that I find in Mass and meditation, which itself is just a deep form of prayer. It makes me feel better and helps me to be more compassionate towards others, which I guess is enough. After communion I drive to Molescroft to see Leslie, he is waiting for me by the door and says he is feeling fragile today. Somehow, despite my best intentions, I have forgotten the filter for the coffee, for the third Sunday running, there may be something Freudian going on here. This week there are no empty plastic bottles to re-engineer, but a piece of card is made into a funnel and secured with cellotape, and that suffices. I have brought him half my oatmeal and sultana biscuits, but his appetite is not good and he saves them for later. Leslie, despite being old, is very, very bright and likes to confront problems head on. He has arranged for physiotherapy at home since we last spoke, which is what he needs, in order to regain the strength in his legs. I suggest that I also check with John, the manager at the leisure centre, whether I could walk him up and down their long corridor. It is warm, indoors and safe. Between myself and Liz, his care worker, and the physiotherapist, we should be able to get him going again. We also discuss the possibility of researching care homes, because if we live long enough, we may all need them in the long term and it is better to pick your own for the future, than have someone else do it for you. I give him a hug before I leave, something we have never done in twenty five years, and promise to call back during the week. Norman is asleep in his basket when I return home, we had the first real frost last night and he doesn't much like the cold. I can't be bothered to change into walking gear, so bundle him on the back seat and drive back into town, parking outside Sarah's house in North Bar, she and the children are still in London for half term, so I walk Norman to Seven Corners Lane and let him off the lead. He walks to the wall, empties his bladder and then runs back to Sarah's, his brain on auto pilot, this is where Clement and Alice used to bring him before he came to live with me. He obviously doesn't want a marathon walk today, so we just walk through town and back, pausing at the Beverley Arms hotel, opposite Saint Mary's to admire two paintings by Fred Elwell, a Beverley born Royal Academician. There are about twenty reproductions of his paintings dotted around the town, suitably weather proofed and we have an "Elwell trail", that takes you round them all. When we return home, I give Norman some dry food and then make lunch. It only takes a few minutes and consists in cooking some spaghetti and then adding some of the sauce from the slow cooker, with a generous grating of Gran Padano and a glass of Merlot. Norman cleans my plate afterwards and we retire to the garden room to read the Observer. Felicity phones on my mobile, but the reception is poor and I can't hear her, so call her back later. She just wanted to thank me for yesterday and to chat, it is time for Norman's dinner and evening walk, so I tell her I will take him to the Westwood and call in afterwards. It is just getting dark as we park up, and the nights are starting to get cold now. The night before bonfire night is called "Mischief Night" in Yorkshire and there is a great film of the same name by a female tyke director, whose name escapes me. Norman performs his duties and as we return down Westwood Road, a man with a dog comes out of the Woolpack, the local pub. He confirms that dogs are allowed in the little room with the stone floor to the right of the entrance, so Norman and I make our way in. My glasses instantly mist over, coming out of the cold night air, but I find the room, it is tiny and there are four people, two couples and one dog, already in there. I wipe Normy's paws with a tissue, squeeze into a seat by the door and sit him on my knee, before ordering a pint of Jennings Lakeland bitter. The people with the dog are very friendly, a husband and wife and their son and daughter in law, and they have just finished a late pub lunch. The son, it transpires, has just come back from a spell living in the US and we chat about places we have both visited, New York, Washington, Miami and surprisingly Cincinnatti and Tulsa. We leave after a pleasant half hour and call in on Fliss, who has just injected insulin and is about to eat some macaroni cheese. She wants us to stay, so Norman returns to my knee and we chat while she eats. I ask after Barbara, who had a hysterectomy on Thursday, and Felicity says Hannah was planning to see her this afternoon. It is now six thirty, so I phone "The Great Dane", and pass my mobile across to Felicity. It seems Barbara has developed a heart murmur, but they are discharging her tomorrow anyway and have told her to go to her GP and ask him to arrange a cardiologist. Hannah, an ex nursing sister, is less than impressed, but I suspect the hospital doctors can't have thought it too serious. The other interpretation is that she is over seventy and??? I can see Felicity visibly tiring after a while, she has had a busy day with family visiting, so we take our leave and drive home. Norman sprints back into the house, I think he has forgotten that he has already had dinner and expects feeding again. Of course this is not an option , otherwise I will have the fattest dachshund with the worst memory on the planet. It's Bonfire night tomorrow and I am collecting Louis from school and giving him his tea before taking him for swimming lessons at five. Beverley Lions are holding their annual bonfire on the Westwood tomorrow evening and I have promised to take him to it, Sarah Alice and Richard will also be there. What better for bonfire night than pie and peas? I have the pies and after saving the last of the pasta sauce from the slow cooker in a tupperware container, I knock together some mushy peas, German Style. Basically it is still peas but with finely chopped chorizo, potato and onion added, plus garlic, (which is just my preference). The slow cooker will work its magic and by tomorrow afternoon it will be ready. I leave this simmering and take some rye bread, Camembert and a glass of wine into the Garden Room and listen to David Sideris on Radio Four, unfortunately the last of this series, his gentle but acute, observational comedy is in a class of its own. Later, I do some online shopping and download Ralph Kirshbaum and the Takacs Quintet's new Schubert album and an anthology of Paul Robeson's songs. The Schubert is wonderful and I am listening to it as I type this blog. To bed at ten thirty.