"There aren't any rules!"

We wake to a miserable, cold, wet morning, poor old Normy braves the weather and trots stoically into the garden, while I make breakfast. We are having soft boiled eggs and rye toast soldiers, two for me and one for him, his chopped and spread over crumbled toast. After breakfast we listen to the news for a while and then shower and dress for our morning patrol around the Westwood with my wife's terriers, Dolly and Teddy. Today, March 20th is the vernal equinox, and also my mother's birthday, she would have been ninety one, but died fifty seven years ago on July 12th. The woods are wet and my old enemy, the cold east wind, is back and very much in our face as we wend our way from Black Mill back to the car. After returning the dogs to Pip, we drive back into town and park by Saint John's church, before walking the short distance through the Bar to the Poppy Seed cafe, to meet friends for coffee. Felicity has a hospital appointment and can't make it, but Hanne, Thelma and Jill are there. Jill is having to communicate by notepad as she has been rendered stone deaf, as a side effect of the Epylin medication, given to her after her recent TIA. She is well into her eighties and otherwise bright and alert, we discuss the trade offs between risk and treatment, Jill talking and the rest of us writing our responses. It raises the question, is it better to risk death from a further stroke and hear, or remain deaf and live? It is the old quality versus quantity of life argument. Speaking personally, I would tend to opt for short term intensity against long term dullness. Of course in Jill's case it depends how long she needs to take the medication, but no one seems to have told her, so she determines to ask her GP, Russell Martin, who coincidentally is also mine, when she sees him this afternoon. Hanne has a spare ticket for the telecast of Alan Bennett's "People", from the National Theatre, tomorrow evening and asks if I would like to have it. I like Bennett's wry humour and acute observation, so accept and arrange to meet her and the others, at the cinema. Norman takes all of this in, while he rests nestled in the crook of my arm and graciously accepts the odd pat from other Poppy Seed regulars as they pass our table. We return home for half past twelve, and waiting for me on the mat, is the notification of my speeding ticket. When I open it, alll that is required, at this stage, is to confirm that I was the driver and fill in my details. It says I may be eligible for a speed awareness course in lieu of points, I did one just over three years ago in order to keep my licence pristine, so I am not sure whether I will be offered another. In any case, I complete the form and after giving Normy a few biscuits and fresh water, post it en route to the leisure centre. The pool is quiet as the school children are having lessons in the little toddlers pool, so I am able to complete my 2,000m medley programme unhindered. It is broken into 5 sets of 4 x 100m continuous individual medleys, and as on Monday, I notice that the last couple of hundred metres are taking an extra stroke per length as I begin to tire. Still, all in all, I am pleased with the progress and will review my training regime after Friday's session. At the moment I am limiting training to three days per week, as I need a rest day between them, and will probably stay with this routine until I have built up to the 2,500m that is the target for the Swimathon. Health permitting, I should be there in two to three weeks. After my swim I drink tea in the cafe and eat the last three sultana oaties from the batch I made the other day. At three o'clock I drive home, hang up my wet gear to dry and then write a quick letter to my GP, explaining where I am at, regarding tests and appointments with the urologist, Mr. Cooksey. I drop this at the surgery on my way to collect Louis from Hector's House, I am baby sitting him while his Mum and sister, drive to Nottingham to see "One Direction". When we arrive at Sarah's house, they are all dashing around getting changed, before setting off for Nottingham, so Louis and I take Norman for his evening walk around Seven Corner's Lane and then afterwards walk into town to the "Works", where I am looking for picture framing kits. They are closing as we get there, at five thirty, but confirm that they haven't got what I want, Louis wants to call at WH Smiths for football cards, but is out of luck, as they are closed too. As it starts to become dark, the streets are cold and becoming empty and it is with relief that we enter the warmth of Harper's Fish and Chip cafe, down Lairgate, where we are having dinner. There are two other couples there, but the waitress, a young teenage girl, remembers us from last time and takes our order immediately. The place is becoming ever more popular and the "two for a tenner" deal has now been limited to Monday's and Tuesday's, but it is still cheap anyway. We both have haddock and chips with mushy peas for me and baked beans for Louis. I order a pot of tea to be brought straight away and Louis has a bottle of lemonade. The other couples are served first, but I keep him amused by looking through the photos on my phone, which include our recent circumnavigation of the Humber Bridge. Our meals duly arrive, the food is first rate, and we both clear our plates. To my surprise Louis tells me he has room for a chocolate cake, that is revolving in a display case, opposite our table, and the waitress brings it, along with some vanilla ice cream. We share the dessert, Louis eats the cake and I the ice cream, the waitress brings the bill, which even with a tip, is less than twenty pounds. We walk back to Sarah's through the dark streets and once indoors, I change him into his pyjamas and let him play a football game on his computer for fifteen minutes before bedtime at seven. Norman has settled in for the evening, on a cushion on the couch, and I am starting to feel the exertions of the day, by the time I take the little chap up the stairs to his bedroom. It is our tradition that Louis always has a "Grandad" story before going to sleep and he particularly likes stories of Beaverlee in the olden days, so I make one up about a Midsummer's day football match between Beaverlea and Wyke, (which is what Hull used to be called). North Bar becomes one goal post and I invent a South Bar, as the other goalpost, by the minster. Medieval football matches involved all the males in the town and were notoriously rough, but in ours Beverlea eventually triumph, with the help of Louis, Grandad, Clement and his semi mythical, great, great, great uncle Ted Fozzard, who played prop forward for Batley, when they won the cup in 1896, and was reportedly, "the man with the iron grip", as he was an industrial blacksmith by trade. The thing about the story that Louis likes best, is the crowd's response to any complaints of cheating by the opposing sides, who get up to all sorts of nefarious tricks. The crowd chants, "There aren't any rules"! "There aren't any rules"! It appeals to Louis' inner anarchist and mine. By eight o'clock he falls asleep and I follow suit, waking at half past twelve, half an hour before Sarah and Alice arrive back from their concert. Normy and I then drive back to Tickton and are back in bed by half past one.