A less bitter day

As ever, I wake before the alarm goes off at half past six, Normy stretches in his basket by my bed, then shakes himself and waits for me to open the patio door in the Garden Room, to let him out to perform his ablutions. The grey, cold weather continues and while he is outside, I make my way to the kitchen, where I slide some rye bread into the toaster, put the kettle on for hot water for my boiled eggs and load the percolator with ground coffee. When I turn round, he is back indoors, at his usual spot by the hall radiator, so return and close the patio door and then proceed with breakfast. Setting the timer on my phone to four minutes, I prick my giant eggs, put them in a Pyrex jug with some salt, cover with boiling water and place in the microwave on full power. They emerge, are then drained and doused in cold water to halt the cooking process, and then decapitated to reveal perfect soft boiled eggs. The golden yolks still liquid and the whites fully cooked. After breakfast there is just enough time to drink coffee and listen to the news, before showering and dressing, ready to leave the house for eight o'clock. Before leaving, I hang out my coloured washing, to see if the bitter easterly wind can dry these, before darkness this evening. Louis is more or less dressed and waiting for me when I arrive, so after finding his winter coat, hat and scarf, we collect Norman from the back seat of the car and make our way down North Bar Without, and into New Walk, before turning right past the police station, down Bleach Yard. Louis is full of talk about his new passion, football, and quizzes me about the team colours and grounds of all the clubs in the league. He knows the answers, from a book he has, and wants to test my knowledge. The girls at the Bleach Yard stables are mucking out the horses as we pass and the horses breath is sending up clouds of steam in the cold air. Louis is delivered to school on time but seems to believe that I am picking him up at three fifteen and taking him to the book club after school, he has his eye on a football book. I tell him that his mum has not mentioned this to me, but that she may contact me later. Norman and I retrace our steps, collect the Chrysler from Sarah's house and then drive to Cherry Burton, in order to pick up Dolly and Teddy, before setting out for our morning walk on Beverley Westwood. Overall, February has been a dry month, at least so far and the paths through the woods are starting to dry out. This morning the usual order of releasing Teddy first is reversed and I let Dolly have a run through the woods, Norman trots on about ten paces behind Teddy and I, while I peel and eat a Clementine orange and later eat a Granny Smith apple. We meet Angela Semple and her dog Sophie, as we turn onto the common, they are heading home and we towards Black Mill, so we stop and chat for a minute. Dolly comes back to be put on the lead and Teddy is let off to run and play chase with some other terriers. Terriers play really rough, but it is all good natured and when we arrive at the Mill, he promptly returns to the lead. Here, out in the open, we are fully exposed to the cold, easterly wind. Norman preempts any decision to extend our walk and sets off at a lick on the diagonal path to the north, that leads back to my car. After returning the terriers to Pip's, we make our way to Morrisons, for rye bread, butter and milk. The supermarket is packed, mostly with older people, and we are in and out quite quickly but still tempted to buy more cheese, which is on special offer and Madeira and fruit cake, one of which, probably Madeira, will be donated to Felicity. Perhaps it's just supermarket shopping, but my energy levels have collapsed again, so after filling up with diesel, we drive home. Norman has a bone, I unpack the shopping and then meditate for an hour, before making tea and some sandwiches of apricot conserve on crusty bread, which I eat whilst listening to the news. A text arrives from Sarah, confirming what Louis said and asking me to pick him up at three fifteen. I say that I will do this and remind her that I have an appointment with Dr Martin at tea time, she texts back to say Alice will be home from High School by four and can look after him until she herself arrives back later. To be sure of this, I text Alice and ask her to be home for four. Before setting out to collect Louis, I check the washing and find that the east wind has in fact, done it's job and gather it in a basket and then store it in the front room for ironing later. We park outside Sarah's house in North Bar and then Norman is left to sleep on the back seat, while I retrace our morning walk to Saint Mary's primary school and join the other parents and grandparents in the playground, waiting for the children to emerge. There is a marked contrast in dress between the generations, apart from the obvious one of fashion. Us oldies are all well wrapped up against the cold, while the young mums seem oblivious, although the temperature is barely two degrees and the windchill must take that down another five degrees. Louis emerges with his classmates, his fleecy blue hat askew and his coat wide open, clutching a box containing a football game and book. He tells me his teacher let him buy it from the book club early, so after fastening his coat and pulling his hat over his exposed ears, we make our way back to North Bar. It is ten to four when we get there, so we collect Norman and take him four a walk around Seven Corner's Lane, leaving Louis' school bags and his football game in the car. The walk is about half a mile, and we take it slowly, arriving back at ten past four, but there is still no sign of Alice and she isn't answering her phone, so we leave Normy in the Chrysler and Louis and I walk through the bar to Rolando's for a hot chocolate. Nico, Rolando's Albanian/Italian chef, is drinking coffee with one of Louis' teachers from last year, after finishing his lunchtime shift. He has known Louis since he was a baby and marvels at how big he has grown. The teacher obviously knows Louis, he is big, exuberant and precociously bright, but with a fairly short attention span for anything other than that which currently interests him. In short he is a character, he reminds me and probably everyone else, of Richmal Cromptom's William. While we drink our chocolate, I try Alice again and then Sarah, but only reach their voicemail, but when we return to the house, just after four thirty, both are home. Sarah has just arrived and Alice tells me she had a graphic design club after school and claimed her phone had run out of battery. Louis plays with his game, while I chat to Sarah, with Norman on my knee, until it is time to leave for my appointment with the doctor. Doctor Martin, always runs late, because he always explains, often at great length, what he is doing and why. This also makes him the most popular doctor in the practice, so it is twenty to six before I am called in to see him. There are two things I wish to discuss, arthritis and the relapse of my prostate cancer. I raise the least serious, but most debilitating, first and after a tour d' horizon of the benefits and risks of respective NSAID's am given a prescription for both Diclofenac and Naproxen, which has fewer side effects and which he recommends I try. Until this winter, I have only needed anti inflammatories intermittently, but the damp weather has played havoc, particularly with my left hip and I now need a repeat prescription. We then discuss the prostate cancer and he is somewhat outraged that my appointment is not until April, but concedes that treatment is unlikely to be urgently required and we agree that I will have a full series of blood tests the week before my consultation with the specialist, so they have the most up to date data upon which to work. He thinks the first action will probably be an MRI scan, but my research suggests that hormone therapy is a more likely immediate response. I don't contradict Dr Martin, who is very kind, and thank him for his help, collect my prescription from the pharmacy and then drive home with Normy. My appetite is also a little under the weather, so after giving Norman a tin of dog food, I set up the sandwich toaster that Sarah bought as a Christmas present, and make toasties, with Mozarella and sun dried tomatoes. Later, William phones after visiting Leslie in hospital and reports a transformation. The antibiotics have finally kicked in, his fever has subsided and my old friend is rational again. This is most welcome news, and after chatting for a few minutes, I confirm that I will visit tomorrow afternoon before ringing off. I read some more Scibona, one of the characters, an old woman called, Mrs Marinara, takes a long hot bath, in order to ease her aching joints against the deep cold Ohion winter of 1953. This seems like such a good idea that I decide to follow suit and run myself a deep, hot bath and soak in it for half an hour. Normally I always have a shower after breakfast and rarely bathe. The therapeutic effects on Mrs Marinara's joints, as reported in the novel, are not replicated in me, but it does help me to relax and feel sleepy. So after letting Norman out for his last sojourn of the day, we go to bed, where I lay and read another chapter of Scibona's fine book, before falling asleep.