Wake to a wild and windy day, the clouds scudding across the sky, driven by a fierce Westerly gale, after our usual full English breakfast and a shower, I dress myself and wrap Norman in his winter coat and set off for Cherry. The wind nearly takes the door off the Chrysler, when I collect Dolly and Teddy, so I am extra careful when I let the dogs out of the car on Newbald Road. The wind is so fierce that it steals the dog's barks and hurls them a quarter mile down the road, to emerge as a faint echo against the roaring blast of its rage. Newbegin Pits woods provides some short relief, but when we emerge on to the common by Barbara's house, we are met by its full blast, finding any gaps between clothes and bare skin, at neck, wrists and ankles. Some crows are flying against the wind, hugging the ground and progressing in short ungainly hops. It is a relief to regain the shelter of the car and drop the terriers back with Pip, before driving to Albert Terrace bearing Madiera cake for tea with Felicity? Her tummy is upset again and she doesn't really feel up to visitors, but puts on a brave face and has a small slice of cake. Normy sits on my knee, nibbling titbits of Madiera, which I feed him between sips of my tea, as I chat with her. She is annoyed that she missed yesterday's outing through illness and consequently doesn't much want to hear how good the film was, illness has weakened her sense of humour, so we only stay for twenty minutes, before driving home. I still don't feel one hundred percent better myself, but put on a wash load of whites after first feeding Norman some biscuits and then stuff some tubes of Canneloni with the Bolognese sauce from the fridge, before making a bechamel sauce, which I pour over the pasta and then top off with grated Mozarella. When the oven has warmed up, the Canneloni goes in and then I mix up a fresh batch of sultana oaties, while it is cooking. The phone rings, it is Leslie's daughter, Margaret, letting me know how her father is faring. Not well, he is still confused and the neuro surgeon has said that they intend to repair his vertebrae by injecting a cement like compound into it. This will take place on Monday as the consultant isn't there on Friday. Margaret asks if I can visit Leslie on Saturday, as they have a friends 30th anniversary party to attend, I had intended to go tomorrow, now that my cold is clearing, but agree to Saturday evening, as I can call in on the way back from visiting Jackie and Gino in West Yorkshire where we a meeting for fish and chips at the Mermaid Restaurant at lunchtime. The oven pings and the Canneloni emerge golden brown and spitting melted cheese, they are placed on a bread board to rest until they are cool enough to eat, and the oaties are slid into the oven, to bake on the top shelf. The pasta hits the spot, a good dish on a cold day, and as I take my mug of tea into the garden room, the oaties are also ready and laid out on the range to cool. An email tells me I have until midnight to register at half price for the Marie Curie Swimathon, so I decide to take the plunge and register, confirming my earlier decision to undertake to swim one hundred lengths, in a continuous medley, and make a donation at the same time to kick start the fundraising. Whilst I am on the site, I find there is an option to undertake the swim at a different time to the general Swimathon, this helps greatly, as I am sure the Leisure Centre staff will cooperate to let me use a lane for an hour when the pool is quiet, as swimming butterfly and backstroke isn't possible with half a dozen other people in the lane. Afterwards , I watch the high winds blowing the trees across the fields and compose a little Haiku, a Japanese form of condensed poetry in three lines of five, seven and five syllables.
Against screaming winds
Black crows fly, hugging the ground,
Progressing in hops.
Later Felicity phones to apologise for being miserable, which isn't necessary, as we can all be down when ill. She has also borrowed my line about the Ginger Biscuit Dusty Fox for a poem of her own, which is more descriptive and clever than mine, I quite like it, but I am in a Zen minimalist mood today and feel that sometimes adjectives and adverbs and metaphors can overwhelm poesis. Around tea time we drive into town to collect a prescription from the doctor's and to drop of a little note for him expanding my reasons for suggesting another PSA test. The receptionist tells me he doesn't think I need one, but I pass the note over anyway, before driving into town to buy some odds and ends. Norman is in the car and I had intended to walk him around town, but it has started to rain and the wind is driving it with force against the windscreen, so he remains safe and warm inside, whilst I shop. We return home shortly after six and Norman makes do with a quick toilet run in the garden before his dinner, just a dog tin tonight, while I settle down with a book downloaded from the IBookstore about Lincoln, "A team of rivals". At half past seven, I take a break and make some boiled eggs with rye toast soldiers, the eggs are ones I bought from Walkington Manor this morning, on my way to Felicity's house, they are the first layings of free range pullets, (young hens), and they are enormous. So big are they, that they barely fit in the egg cups! I like my eggs soft boiled and have developed a technique to ensure that they are perfectly cooked. This entails covering the eggs in salted boiling water from the kettle and then microwaving them for exactly four minutes, before cooling them in cold water and serving. They are delicious, with golden yellow yolks which I sprinkle with a little salt and black pepper. Afterwards I return to my book and then turn in at half past ten, setting the alarm clock for half past six, as I take Louis to school on Friday mornings.
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