A fishy Friday

Friday dawns bright and clear, after letting Norman out and then giving him his Bakers, I make smoked salmon and cream cheese on rye toast for me and take it into the Garden Room to eat. The sun is shining into my face for a few minutes but then moves behind the garage and it is a little more comfortable for me to sit and eat, whilst listening to the news. More fuss about Margaret Thatcher's State Funeral, which is being spun furiously by both her admirers and detractors, it typifies the class divisions that still define us English. Walking the dogs is a real pleasure in the finer weather and in Tickton at least, the blackthorn is blooming and I now have a fine show of golden daffodils in the garden. On the Westwood, which is more exposed to the wind, nothing is yet in bloom, but the hawthorn is showing the first signs of tiny green leaves. When we return home after dropping off the terriers, a parcel is waiting for me, it is the big button, cordless phone, that I ordered for Felicity. I open the box and find that it looks every bit as chunky and easy to use as it's picture on the computer. It is a task of only seconds to put in the batteries and plug in the base station, I phone my iPhone from it and it works perfectly. After putting the handset onto the base station cradle, I leave the phone to charge fully, before driving to the leisure centre for a swim. The pool is fairly quiet and I have a lane to myself, but vary my routine today, swimming 500m repeats, except for butterfly, which I break up into 10 x 50m and then warm down on an easy 500m, on a mixture of front and back crawl. After showering and dressing, I eat a toasted teacake with a pot of tea in the cafe, before driving into Beverley for my monthly haircut. The barber's is quiet and Paul has me in the chair within minutes and back on the street in five more, having discussed the Tiger's promotion prospects whilst he snipped. Beverley is full of lunchtime shoppers who are taking advantage of the sudden arrival of spring. One of the many charity shops down Butcher Row is displaying a book sale, and amongst the books is a 2013 football album, it is in graphic novel format, which Louis should be able to handle, so I buy it for him. The volunteer tells me that it is three books for a pound, so I scour the box and find another football book for Louis and an illustrated book about the Victorians doing the Grand Tour, which I select for Felicity. By the door, is what looks like a small wooden side table, but on closer examination it turns out to be a sturdy, folding stool. It is only £3, so I buy it for Felicity, to put by her new reclining chair, which also has a matching footstool. I noticed the other day that she has nowhere to put a drink, as the footstool is angled at about fifteen degrees. Armed with these treasures, I walk up Greyburn Lane to Albert Terrace, and pay the old girl a call. The stool/table fits between her recliner and the wall perfectly, it has a little hole drilled in it and we speculate as too its purpose, a commode perhaps for a man with a very small willy, or more likely somewhere to hang it from a hook against a wall, as it has probably been used in a buttery or churn room, somewhere. Felicity is grateful, but remains unconvinced, that she will be able to use the cordless phone, as she is a committed technophobe. So I leave her at half past four and promise to deliver the phone in the morning and show her how to use it, before I take her to the Poppy Seed to meet her friends. She is still at odds with Melissa over the control of her budget and the selection of carers and I try, unsuccessfully, to reassure her that her daughter will restore things back to the way she likes, when she has some breathing space from teaching at the weekend. I return home for five o'clock and feel very hungry after my swim, there are some prawns and mussels defrosted, that I removed from the freezer this morning, along with some diced peppers and garden peas. It only takes half an hour to transform these into a seafood paella, which is washed down with a glass of Sauvignon Blanc. Later Norman sits on my knee while I read my book, as dusk settles on the field beyond my garden, a large white barn owl hunts for mice. To bed for eleven.