Not quite fifty shades of grey

A curious night of almost continuous, snow, sleet and rain, as the temperature fluctuated around the freezing point. This morning the landscape is a meditation on themes of white and grey. A uniform grey sky lies over the land, which is streaked in white snow and grey slush, but the simple words, white and grey, don't begin to describe the shades and subtleties these words infer. I feel better this morning and didn't need decongestant medicine last night, my phlegm is also becoming clearer, so after breakfast, I strip the beds and change the linen, consigning my recent bug to the laundry basket. Pip phones around nine, to stand me down from taking the terriers out this morning, so I have the day to myself, at least until a quarter to three, when I will need to collect Louis and Laura from school. I had also been going to tell Andrew and Pip about my positive PSA results, but that will have to wait until tomorrow. After showering and dressing, I take Norman for a walk around the fields, he is a reluctant hiker this morning, slamming on the brakes as I attempt to leave the close, but we both need the exercise, so I insist and eventually he gives in and trots along the road to the snickett that leads to Carr Lane, grey and white seagulls stand sentry on TV antennae, brought inland by the bad weather. The paths too are grey slush with streaks of white from the fine hail that is falling, as we make our way to the bridge. The ditches are full of dark grey slushy water ice, the only other natural colours coming from the dark green moss on the trees, and the dark brown of dead weeds and grasses. Across the bridge, a teasel bush stands proud against the wind and scans the fields to our South, where Hull lies unseen beyond the horizon. When I left Grammar School in the summer of 1962, I worked temporarily in Wormalds and Walkers blanket factory, in Thornhill Lees, near Dewsbury. They used to use teasels in their carding machines, in order to bring up the pile on the blankets and make them fluffy. That whole textile industry and the close communities of workers they engendered, has now long disappeared and the teasels have returned to being once again, just weeds in the wild. We turn left into "almost straight wood", in order to escape the cold easterly wind, that is blowing strongly from the coast. When we emerge from the western edge of the plantation, we make our way back in its lee, along the side of the dyke that leads back to the bridge, the houses of the village silhouetted across the fields to our north. As we walk, a cascade of rabbits evacuates the fields as we approach, first one, then two , then four, eight and soon hordes of them retreat and disappear into their warrens, that riddle the sides of the dyke. In the distance a metallic grey wind turbine rotates counter clockwise, perhaps attempting to stem the flow of time, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock tick. Norman's blue coat, the only vivid colour in this landscape of greys and whites, and yet despite the cold dank greyness, I am happy, wrapped against the weather, impervious to depression and negative PSA tests, at least for now. Indoors, the balance of the braising steak is simmering in a rich gravy, with added pork sausages for Normy. When we return to the warmth of the house, I give Normy a drink and then dig out the last box of my winter coats and fleeces from the garage, making room for them in the wardrobe, by removing some summer jackets. Then, before returning indoors, I read the gas and electricity meters, and file the results online to British Gas. Before lunch, I dig out the food processor and mix a fresh batch of sultana oaties, cut them into biscuits and then bake them in the oven, while I peel potatoes and chop up spring greens for lunch. These I cook in the microwave and my biscuits and lunch are ready and served before the news, at one o'clock on radio four. Norman is delighted with his meal and clears his bowl before lying, like a fat little python who has just swallowed a pig, on the carpet by the radiator. At half past two, we both dress for the cold again and then venture outside into the snow, Norman snug on his blanket on the back seat of the Chrysler, while I free the car of snow and ice, before driving to Sam's house where we park. It is a quarter of a mile from Sam's to Saint Mary's primary and another half mile to Molescroft Primary where we collect Laura, and the same distance again before we return to Sam's, to complete the circuit, so Norman has had the chance to walk off some of his lunch. Rebecca didn't make it to her special school in Goole today, as the escort refused to risk the roads, and Laura missed morning school too and was dispensed antibiotics by the GP for her cough. This we discover from Sam, who makes me tea while the children play in the lounge. It is a short visit, as Louis has swimming lessons at five and Laura an appointment at the opticians, for her new glasses to be fitted. Somehow, Louis is delivered to his class on time again, and is the only child to make it, so he has the undivided attention of Debbie, his instructor for the half hour of his lesson. I drink hot chocolate and watch through the pool window, whilst behind me Mark, is torturing a spinning class on their exercise bikes. Louis is dried and driven back to North Bar for six and asks for drinking chocolate as soon as we are let in by Alice, so I make chocolate for them both. Sarah arrives minutes later and I take the opportunity to,update her about my PSA results, before driving home for six thirty. Nine years ago, when I first had the prostate cancer, I took the decision not to treat it differently from any other disease and was open about what was happening with all my family, as whispering and euphemism's create an unnecessary and unhelpful level of anxiety. At this stage, nothing is yet certain, but for me at least, openness and honesty has always worked best. I have some ante pasta for dinner and give Norman some biscuits, later I read for a while and then have a reasonably early night.