Tigers and Owls

We get up around seven thirty, I woke up during the night feeling hungry and ate a few oaties with a glass of milk, so consequently my appetite won't sustain a full English breakfast this morning. Instead I opt for soft boiled eggs with rye toast soldiers, Norman has to make do with Bakers again. Tomorrow I have promised him we will do the traditional breakfast, with sausage, bacon and black pudding. I ring Felicity to ask if she will make the Poppy Seed, and she says she will, so I agree to see her there about ten fifteen. Something is wrong, and at first I can't put my finger on it, but then it comes to me, she always answers the phone using her name, but last night and this morning she has just said "hello", perhaps my amateur shrink, is making too much of this, but just maybe, she feels less of a person after viewing care homes with Melissa yesterday. After showering and dressing, I put Norman's towel in my shoulder bag, along with my ipad, in order to show Felicity Louis' football photos and drive to Norwood where we park. We walk into town via Beverley Market, where I stop to buy a large magnifying glass for Leslie, as it may encourage him to start reading the Economist and the Telegraph again. Felicity is waiting in the Poppy Seed, sharing the table with another elderly lady of about the same age, I dry Norman's paws on my towel and then sit him on my knee, while I wait for my tea to arrive. The other lady leaves, she had been eating breakfast and left a slice of bacon, which the waitress donates to Normy, I can almost see the speech bubble coming out of his mouth, it says, "about time too". Felicity seems artificially bright, but I am not fooled and know she is worried about the future, I offer to to take Norman and spend the night, if she feels frightened next week, as Melissa is back at work. She sleeps on a bed in the living kitchen, because she is no longer able to climb the stairs, but there is another bed in the upstairs bedroom. The rest of her friends arrive in ones and twos, first Rosemary and Silvia and then Barbara and Jill, soon the hum of conversation fills the cafe. Barbara is much congratulated for her piece on Radio Four, defending Beverley's cobble stones, or sets as they are known locally. The campaign is known as SOS, Save Our Sets, and it is as much about the high handed autocratic behaviour of East Riding Council, as it is about our market place. Last to arrive is Joy, Felicity's sister, just before Norman and I have to leave, in order to walk Leslie before lunch at Beverley Grange. When I arrive the nurses tell me that he has been walking and he is bright and cheerful when I enter his room and present him with his magnifying glass. He tries it out on a copy of the Times from Wednesday, and I tell him he looks like Sherlock Holmes, and he laughs, before we set off and walk the corridors between his room and the restaurant. His walking is getting better and he manages unaided all the way there and back, before we adjourn to the lounge, for a chat before lunch. We had both heard an article on Woman's Hour, where some manufacturer of men's underwear, revealed that men stop buying underpants in a recession, I confess that the bottom of my undie drawer has pants that date back twenty years. Leslie laughs and says he will see my twenty and raise me another ten! We walk back to the restaurant and sit at the same table as yesterday, with Christina and Barbara. There is a different chef on duty for the weekend and a different chief nurse, so I am not invited to lunch, or rather brunch, but I am given a cup of tea. Christina, or Tina, depending on whose talking to her, is originally from Nova Scotia, and whilst chatting to the others, I help her to eat her bacon, scrambled egg, sausage, mushrooms and baked beans. It helps Leslie to be sitting with the same people and he starts to contribute a little to the conversation. Lunch is a protracted affair, as each meal is served and delivered to each resident. There are twenty four for lunch today, and each is served brunch with fruit juice and later dessert, rhubarb crumble with custard and a cup of tea or coffee. Tina completes her brunch and then manages, with a little help, to use her spoon and eat dessert. Leslie opts for ice cream instead and eats it all, he also ate all his main course. A real improvement, regular food has filled him out a little and he looks much better. I ask if he may have some fruit to take to his room and he chooses a couple of bananas, we say goodbye to the two ladies and he then walks unaided back to his room. By now it is a quarter past one and I have left Norman in the car, so need to make tracks, but before leaving I ask Leslie if there is anything he would like? He asks for grapes and I say I will bring some tomorrow and will call in at the same time, after church. Normy and I arrive home about one thirty, and I put some long grain rice in the steamer, warm a plate and a couple of wraps in the microwave and then serve myself chile con carne from my slow cooker, with all the trimmings, grated cheese, guacamole, hot salsa and sour cream, accompanied by a tin of lager. Poor Norman has to have a dog tin again, as I don't want to gamble with chile powder and his bowels. After lunch, I make a mug of coffee and answer some emails, and find to my surprise that it is almost three o'clock, and I have promised to collect Louis for the football at four. He has asked for his favourite soup, chicken and sweetcorn, so I make a flask and wrap it in a fleece blanket, before stowing it in my shoulder bag, along with half a loaf of crusty French bread. It is cold outside and sleet and snow are forecast for this evening, so I layer up, but am unable to find my thermal long john's, I mustn't have unpacked them from their summer storage in the garage, instead I find a pair of Adidas running tights, that I last wore for the York Brass Monkey Half Marathon, about fifteen years ago. Louis is waiting for me, but he needs another layer, as we are in the upper West Stand, on row Y, about as high up as it is possible to get in the KC stadium. It is fortunate that we have set off early, as the traffic is heavy travelling into Hull, and we arrive at Mark's flats at Linnaeus Street, about half an hour before kick off. Mark and his wife Linda, who is an honorary Aunty for Louis, being his mum's best friend, are already there. An intense hail storm has ensued, so we sit in their car with them until it subsides and then all walk together to the stadium, taking a different route from last time, which takes us over the railway bridge to the stadium, which is illuminated by its floodlights against the dark, winter, night sky. Louis' excitement is mounting and he asks Mark why he comes this way? "Because we always win when we come this way!" Mark replies. We part company at the turnstiles, as they have season tickets in the lower west stand, and we begin our ascent towards the Gods. The match is being televised on Sky, hence the late start, and one of the cameramen is situated at the end of our row, we have a superb view of the pitch, but the attendance is a little lower, as less hardy souls prefer to watch indoors away from the cold. Dave Jones, the Ex Cardiff manager, now in charge of Sheffield Wednesday, fields a team with no strikers, but lots of very large, muscular, midfielders. When the match kicks off, his tactics become obvious, to disrupt the Tigers flowing passing game, by close marking and fairly rough personal attention. It works, by half time we are one nil down to a free kick, from just outside the penalty area, that our keeper lets through his hands. Louis is distraught, this wasn't something that his imagination had anticipated, but he is consoled with soup and crusty bread at half time. The fans in the row in front of us make a big fuss of him and praise his support for the team, as he has been shouting, "come on you Hull", throughout the first half. In the second, Sheffield have, what seems like a perfectly good goal, disallowed and a few minutes later we equalise with a Robbie Koren header from an Elmohammedy cross, against the run of play. The home fans go wild, including us, but are soon silenced when the Owls take the lead again from a corner, that our keeper, Jakapovich, catches and then drops into his own goal. In the ensuing goalmouth melee, the goalie is somehow injured, and play stops for seven minutes whilst he is stretchered off with a neck brace. Although I wouldn't be surprised if it wasn't a case of extreme embarrassment. Louis is disconsolate and it just gets worse as we are hit on the counter attack and they round Mark Oxley, our replacement keeper, and score a third. A fierce blizzard ensues, and a large portion of the home fans stream out of the stadium, but I tell Louis that real fans stick it out until the bitter end. We seem to be rewarded, as Elmohammedy is fouled in the box and we are awarded a penalty, with seconds left to play. Jay Simpson, who has come on as a substitute, takes it, but Chris Kirkwood, the Owls keeper saves, he has been superb all night. The whistle blows and we have lost to a better side on the night. I tell Louis that real fans take the rough with the smooth, and that losing occasionally makes it even better when we win. We walk back the other way and fall in with some lads from Sheffield, who cheer Louis up by telling him this is the first time they have won for ages. We drive home carefully through sleet and snow, listening to the post match roundup on Radio Humberside. I deliver Louis to Alice just after eight and then make my way back to Tickton, where I let Norman into the Garden, before giving him a few biscuits and making myself some cheese and crackers. BT Internet has crashed again, so I doodle with the drawing app on my iPad and then turn in around eleven.