Mayday, Mayday.

We are up early on a perfect Mayday morning, it is barely six o'clock and the glowing orange sun has just cleared the horizon and is shining brightly across the fields to our east, which are still shrouded with early morning mist. My eyes move with pleasure to the garden, which is newly neat from yesterday's efforts, and on which Norman is squatting and laying down "treasure" on the lawn. I have porridge for breakfast and Normy grumbles his way through some Baker's, now the weather is warming up, I shall have to do something about his coat, which hasn't been stripped since last summer. He looks like a miniature, elongated yeti! After breakfast and a shower, we collect Dolly and Teddy from Cherry Burton and drive to the Westwood. In Newbegin Pits we bump into Elaine Julien and her Jack Russell, Milo, she is an old friend from the running club, so I share my news about the cancer tests and then realise afterwards that it was, perhaps, a little tactless, as it is less than a year since her husband died of pancreatic cancer. She says she is pleased for me and we walk together for half a mile through the woods, before she heads off home and we make our way to Black Mill and then back to the car. In honour of May Day and the lovely weather, I am wearing shorts and a polo shirt, as I intend to weed another few flower beds at Two Riggs, unfortunately Pip has a doctor's appointment, so gardening there will have to wait until tomorrow. Undeterred, Normy and I return to Tickton and recommence spring cleaning, clearing out the wardrobes and drawers and transporting winter clothes into the garden, where they are packed away in storage boxes for the summer. The reverse process takes place from the garage, where summer clothes are unpacked, proceed through the annual triage, of keep, dump, or donate to charity. At two o'clock I have had enough and make myself a sandwich of rye bread with cheese and tomato, before driving to the leisure centre and swimming a couple of thousand metres, mixing up the strokes and distances, but generally taking it easy. I am scheduled to visit Laura and Rebecca this evening, and believe I have agreed six o'clock with their mum, Sam, but can't be certain, so I text her to confirm. She responds saying that something has cropped up, but would I like to meet them at the pool?, as Rebecca has a swimming class at five. I reply, saying I am already there and will meet them in the cafe, but Sam suggest we meet in the spectators area adjacent to the pool. I arrive there seconds before them, Laura and I sit on the seats, while Sam takes Rebecca and changes her for her lesson, before handing her over to a specialist instructor. Because she is epileptic and autistic, she has one to one tuition, for which she has had to wait for almost two years. She walks to our side of the pool in her red polka dot bikini pants and tankini top, accompanied by the female instructor, who guides her into the water and then shows incredible patience and kindness as she acclimatises Rebecca to the pool and the feel of the water. Sam returns and I ask if she and Laura would like a drink, Sam declines, but Laura wants a drinking chocolate, so we pop along to the vending machine nearby, rather than queuing in the cafe, which is at its most hectic at this time of day. I carry Laura's drink up the stairs to the viewing area and we watch her sister while we chat, I ask Sam what size shoes her dad, Mike, takes, as I have unearthed a new pair of sandals that I bought a few years ago, that were mislabeled and are half a size too small for me. It turns out Mike is a ten, to my ten and half, so they should fit him, charity after all, begins at home. At half past five, Sam leaves to collect and dress Rebecca, who under the skilful direction of the instructor has progressed from a fearful hesitancy to happy splashing, no mean achievement in thirty minutes. The girls are going to Cherry Burton overnight on Friday to visit Andrew and then travelling to Scarborough for a camping holiday over the Bank Holiday weekend with their mum. We wait in reception, sat on a couch, I ask Laura if she would like to swim with me next week, rather than just watch Rebecca, as there are two or three lanes reserved for public swimming and she agrees enthusiastically. Rebecca emerges from the changing rooms, delighted with her lesson, she gives me a hug and then they have to leave. I drive to Sarah's house, in order to drop off Louis' football book, goalkeeping gloves, and a miniature player that he managed to order on eBay using my PayPal account, which I had left logged on. Fortunately it only cost me three pounds. Sarah has just got in from work and looks frazzled and hassled, as she unpacks some shopping, we have a small contretemps about my arranging football classes for Louis, which is the main reason I have called in. Sarah didn't appreciate me doing this on her day off and isn't placated when I say that I am happy to take him. On my way out of the door she asks about my consultant's appointment and I tell her it was yesterday, and give her a quick synopsis of Mr Cooksey's advice. Somewhat bewilderingly, she tells me it is probably all in my mind, and that a positive attitude is what I need. Rather than get embroiled in an argument, I decide that discretion is in order and leave. Later in the evening she sends me a link for the Mayo Clinic website, which I am already familiar with, but she has completely got hold of the wrong end of the stick, the link refers to people who have been treated for enlarged prostate using a surgical technique called TURPS, trans urethral resection procedure, which essential involves boring out a wider passage through the prostate to aid urinary flow and is incidentally very painful. Two patients on my ward had this done when I had my prostate removed eight years ago. My daughter, like a lot of divorced working mums with kids, lives her life at a hundred miles an hour, and consequently makes quite a few mistakes. I will wait until she has more time and space before attempting to correct her. Perhaps insensitivity runs in the family? Poor Norman is desperate for his dinner when I get in, so I feed him and then make myself some boiled eggs and toast for tea, before turning in early, around nine thirty.