Poetry and Tadploes

Pip phones after breakfast, to say she has received the cancellation note from the Halifax for the house and contents insurance for Two Riggs. I tell her I got it for half the price by shopping around and have printed the policy details and will drop them off when I collect Dolly and Teddy. Norman and I have just finished breakfast and are sat in the garden room reading the Guardian and drinking coffee. The headline article is about the rigging of the gas wholesale market, which has been obvious to anyone with a brain for years. Thank God for the Guardian and a free press, otherwise the cronyism and sleaze that has been building up for thirty years would go completely unchecked. While I am having a rant, how about an anti corruption tax? It's otherwise called tax payer funding for political parties, but again, anyone with a brain can work out my connection. We collect the terriers and drop off Pip's insurance, arriving on the Westwood at a little before ten. It is a mild, cloudy, day with a steady westerly breeze, the sun occasionally apparent in the sky behind high cloud. As we walk through the woods, I call Leslie's daughter, Margaret, to enquire how he is. The phone is answered by her husband, William, a gently spoken scot, whom Leslie holds with great affection. He tells me that he expects Leslie to be discharged this morning, as he thinks he had a panic attack and dialled 999. William is a retired social worker with extensive geriatric experience, he thinks Leslie may have lost the confidence to live on his own. I suspect he may be right, but deep down, I think it is the fear of dying alone that is bothering my old friend. I suggest a period of convalescence might help, to either restore his confidence, or provide an opportunity to consider residential care. If having tried it, he chooses to stay, that would be Leslie's decision. It is a matter for his family, but I tell William that these are things that he and I have discussed. We don't stay out quite so long today, as I would like to swim at lunchtime, so make our way back to the car via the small wood at Newbald Pits. We stop and sit on the bench again, Norman to my left and Dolly snuggled against my right thigh, after a minute or two Teddy jumps up too and Dolly immediately gets down. Sibling rivalry extends to the animal kingdom as well. On our way back we pass some holly trees with their bright red berries standing out against the dark resiny green of the spiky leaves. I take a shot of this and the berries on a hawthorn bush, that is now totally barren of leaves. Using a camera phone with three dogs on the lead adds a degree of chance and randomness to photography. When I review my shots at home, invariably there are as many of the sky and my feet as anything I intended to shoot. We drop the terriers off and arrive in Tickton for eleven thirty, I cut some lamb up for Normy and fill his water bowl, before grabbing my swimming togs and a pair of shoes for the cobblers and some old Daks corduroy trousers that need a zip replacing. After my swim I will drop them off. I am in the pool for midday, and it is quiet again, the fast lane lying empty, so I slide into the water, compose myself and warm up on 400m backstroke. My body always feels good in the water after a few days break, and after a few lengths, I settle into a long, rhythmic, rolling stroke. The continuity of training without illness is starting to pay off, as my stroke count per length on backstroke comes down by one stroke from seventeen to sixteen. It's a small thing but ridiculously pleasing. Backstroke is followed by butterfly, but the 400m is broken down into 8 x 50m repeats, on this too my stroke count is down from nine per length to eight and I maintain relaxation and a low profile in the water to the end of the second length on each repeat. For two length repeats, I breath every second stroke, as the trade off between streamlining and oxygen favours the former over the latter, so that is only four breaths to each length. For an old guy like me, that is quite strenuous, so I take it a little easier on the 400m freestyle but hold a thirteen stroke pattern for each of the sixteen lengths, breathing bilaterally every three strokes. (Four breaths per length again), but the energy demands of front crawl are considerably less than butterfly. The single stroke swimming completes with 400m breaststroke, and here I open up a little. I would normally hold to an eight stroke pattern per length, but extra speed requires extra strokes. Modern breaststroke is swum with a pronounced dolphin movement and a short fast arm stroke, and the best I can manage at a quicker rhythm, is ten strokes per length. The single stroke exercises completed, I now put it all together for a set of 4 x 100m medleys. The medley is a fine balancing act, too fast on the fly and you are in oxygen debt for the backstroke leg and lose time. Try to go too fast on the breaststroke and lose your rhythm, and disaster ensues, but when everything comes together, on all four strokes and the turns between strokes, it feels great. After completing the 2,000m session, I warm down with a gentle 100m freestyle and the same on backstroke. In the cafe over tea and coconut cake, Felicity phones and I arrange to go see her after my errands. On my way to her house, I spot a herb pot in a charity shop, one with little holes in the sides for the plants, and invest £2 to liberate it. It will go alongside my spice rack on the window ledge in my kitchen. When I arrive at Albert Terrace, Felicity and her dogs are out, but the door is open. I guess she will have gone to the Westwood and make my way there, but meet the old girl coming back with her dogs, as I cross Westwood Road. Her grandson, Barnabus, is with her, he is about fifteen and they are very close. He comes after school to help with the dogs and run the odd errand. Felicity is tired after her walk, so I make the tea and then we chat and laugh for half an hour until it is time to go. She presents me with an authorised copy of her anthology of poems, entitled, "The Black Mill Collection", and confesses that it contains at least one typo. Tadpoles have somehow, become Tadploes, I tell her not to worry as they will grow up to be flogs and turn into plinces when they are kissed by plincesses. This sort of drivel pleases her immensely. We are laughing so much, that I leave without my herb pot, I shall retrieve it tomorrow after I have walked her back from the Poppy Seed. It is just after five when I get in and quite dark, a card lies on the mat to say a British Gas engineer called while I was out, despite them texting to confirm an appointment for the third of January. Norman is starving but has to wait while I make dinner, I am pretty hungry myself, and decide to make roast lamb, gravy and trimmings. Just for a change! It doesn't take long, an oxo cube, some lamb stock from the slow cooker and the meat marinades under a low heat, while I peel, carrots, swede, spring greens and potatoes and set these to cook in the pressure cooker. We eat at ten to six, a satisfying winter dinner, I mash the swede and carrots and the potatoes with a knob of butter and a little black pepper. After listening to the news, I put the oven on and mix up a batch of sultana, oatmeal, biscuits, I gave the last of my supply to Leslie on Sunday. While they are cooking Norman and I walk through the village and play "praise and pat" as we return down Green Lane. My little dog is in a very good mood, his tolerance of lamb is almost infinite. Mine is starting to wear a little thin, there are still four slices left, wrapped in foil for sandwiches, in the fridge. And the leg bone is simmering away in a broth in the slow cooker. When we get in, I finely chop up the rest of the spring greens and add that to the broth mix. As I finish, the oven beeps to tell me the oaties are ready, and I set them to cool on the top of the cooker. Later I eat a couple with a glass of milk, while reading Felicity's poems. To bed for ten.