Post 108: Toe-clips and a Pineapple Surprise.
Chatting to a mate you rarely see but always make time for — that’s a chance to recharge and share smiles.
———
With my flip-up flip-down shades perched on my glasses, I headed out to the car, armed with a hearty hug from my Darling and a big cherry-pie kiss on the lips.
At last, I was away from my tri-weekly prison: the first week of chemo.
This self-inflicted “time” is for good reason—recovery and safety—so it’s not so unpleasant…
Except, of course, for my mind’s ability to conjure demons from nowhere and knock my equilibrium into a tailspin.
Off I went in the midday sunshine to meet my pal Daz at a pub about 40 minutes away in the back of beyond.
Well—it’s the back of beyond for me, but on his way home from work.
The pub’s changed over the years. Out here in the sticks, it’s now got some pretty restrictive opening hours. It shuts at 6pm on Sundays and mainly draws in eaters rather than drinkers unlike days gone by when ale was king.
For over 200 years, this building has been a public house.
In the 70s and 80s, it was frequented by fans hoping to catch a glimpse of a legendary rock god at his local. There’s even a painting on the wall by the side bar—an old group portrait—and there he is, subtly standing at the back, the total opposite of the explosive presence that made him, and the band, legendary. He lived next door, in the Elizabethan manor, and the stories of those parties… well, they’d fill a shelf of risqué rock biographies.
The tranquil, tree-lined beer garden was nearly empty. My apple juice—brimming with ice—and my sorry carcass picked a spot all of our own.
I chose a backless wooden picnic table shaded by a big green parasol. While I looked through the menu, colourful butterflies flitted about the pink buddleia—a real-life butterfly bush.
Daz arrived right on time, rolling his super-duper modern racing bike along.
He stumbled down the stone and metal steps into the garden thanks to those cycle-shoe toe-clips—definitely not designed for walking.
The first thing I said to him after a year and a half?
“Hi Daz, you’d better get those shoes off or else it’ll be carnage.”
We both laughed. His Monty Python-style walk did not disappoint.
We hadn’t seen each other for ages and hadn’t worked together in over 16 years, so there was plenty to catch up on.
But of course, the elephant in the room turned out to be the very first topic.
He waddled off (“in stocking feet”, as My Darling would say in her rural Irish brogue) to order sandwiches and get himself a beer. He returned with a tall orange juice full of ice.
“This is a first,” I said. “I don’t remember either of us ever drinking non-alcoholic drinks before. You must be thirsty.”
That sparked a two-and-a-half hour conversation—honest, easy, and full of care.
Nelly the Elephant exited early, and I found myself backpedalling as Daz opened up about his family and friends—three memorials this year alone, all cancer.
I felt humbled by his openness. Humbled and grateful. This occasional friendship is quietly special—the kind that endures time, distance, and change.
I’d worried about being a downer, but that was rubbished by the laughter and warmth that lasted the whole afternoon.
Eventually, we moved to a shadier corner to dodge the sun. But the chat continued until suddenly, a member of bar staff rushed out, flustered, with a drink in hand.
“I’m so sorry!” she said breathlessly. “I just realised I gave you pineapple juice instead of orange. Here’s the right one—free of charge!”. “I noticed when I was clearing away the bottles”, I’m so sorry”.
Daz looked up, smiled, and said, “It did give me a bit of a shock, I must admit—but it’s very refreshing.” He laughed.
She looked horrified. “But what if you were allergic? Oh my…”
She trundled off, tail between her legs.
His calm response stopped a sticky moment from becoming anything more than funny.
The sun kept shining, the weekend was on its way, and for a few hours in that ancient and once-famous hostelry, the world was kind to us.
With food eaten and more cold juice drunk, we parted—exhausted by the marathon of words.
Not before those toe-clip contraptions were reattached and a rear wheel slow puncture pumped up, of course.
A hearty handshake (yes, we’re old-fashioned like that), and a cheerful “See you soon, Daz,” sent us on our separate ways.
———
The day was slightly marred by my back pain.
Halfway home, that chest-corset of nerve pain gripped me, and by the time I arrived home, I could barely walk.
Note to self: backless chairs should be avoided at all costs.
My Darling was making a veggie curry when I staggered in.
She ran around with pills and water to soothe the pain—bless her. The smell of curry spices distracted me from my woes, and in her care, I grew more comfortable, and more hungry.
Her bestie M came over for dinner, cards, and laughter. I plonked myself in the rocking chair and stayed there all evening. Eventually, I made my excuses and headed to bed early.
———
It’s been another tough week, but my ducks are beginning to form a row.
The emotions around the clots and the complaint still linger, and the scan report next week is looming over me.
I just want to know—now.
The prescription is half-sorted and needs chasing, but I’m okay for another 10 days.
Next week needs to be a meet-and-greet, go-out-and-do-stuff sort of week.
I now know that the pills work if I’m kinder to myself.
I mustn’t push my back. I must remember: I’m not as fit as I was.
And I’m in the middle of chemo, for God’s sake—
(“Blasphemy is an unforgivable sin!” as my Big Nan used to say… usually while she was thrashing me at cards. She was a rummy expert. And a wonderful, if slightly hypocritical, granny.)
———
I’m tired—but happy.
Ready to explore the nearby world next week.
My friends have finally got the keys to their “new” home—at long last. Thats deserving of a celebration.
The Bus travels on, and I’m staying put.
Stay with me—you definitely make it easier to cope with. Your kind words are always appreciated and stored in my heart.
Thanks for reading.
