Post 109: New keys and fizz to celebrate.
Dame Cleo Laine has passed away at 97. The Queen of skat from a golden age of exploratory jazz leaves the stage for the last time.
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In a nutshell, today was a “confined to barracks” day—with time off for good behaviour. It began as yesterday ended: back pain grumbling away, not unbearable, but persistent enough to shadow the mundane bits of life.
The usual pills and potions were taken, and the morning chores completed. Mr Vicious had already climbed through the lounge window, pink nose pushing aside the net curtain, ready to claim the prime snoozing spot after devouring breakfast like a hound, not a kitty-cat. He flopped onto the back of the big blue sofa, only a few feet from my rocker, while I settled into a tough Sudoku.
My Darling still has that stubborn headache she can’t shake. I worry, of course—but she insists it’s nothing to fret about: “I’ll tell the doc on the 4th when I go for my next check-up.”
So I wait.
There’s nothing else to do, and nothing planned today that would disturb her rest so I leave her sleeping.
While Mr V and I quietly pottered in the morning calm, my mind wandered back to yesterday’s meet-up with Daz at that rural, once-famous pub. How did I end up in so much pain around my torso and back? Sure, I sat too long on unforgiving, backless garden furniture—but I didn’t feel it until I was halfway home in the fairly comfy driving seat of My Darling’s car. I just don’t get it.
That aside, I was looking forward to breakfast more than usual—My Darling had promised a fake-en and egg sandwich, a rare treat. It always takes me back to our besties’ home in Wigton, years ago. I’ve never been sold on fake meats, but this stuff was a revelation—plant-based bacon that actually looks and tastes great.
Things got even better when our green-fingered neighbour popped in with a handful of fresh-picked Sherwood green French beans. After a quick chat, he wandered off, leaving me happy.
We’re lucky with our neighbours on this little dead-end road. It’s one of the biggest downsides of possibly moving—these people make up a special kind of community. All three of our homes over the years have come with good neighbours. But for now, the moving idea is shelved until chemo’s over.
That pause is a relief. The stress of estate agents, viewings, offers—it’s all too much. No need to add more mental turmoil to the mix. Moving’s now on the back-burner, where it belongs.
Meanwhile, our dear friends A & S finally got the keys to their long-awaited project home: a tired two/three-bed chalet bungalow, plonked in the centre of a huge, overgrown plot. It’s taken weeks of wrangling with English and Welsh property laws and the usual human interference —but they’ve made it. And once the work is done, it’ll be a dream home, or so they plan. More on that later…
The smell of fake-en stirred me from my book and Sudoku. After a quick kiss and cuddle, I sat in the kitchen-diner like an eager child awaiting a treat. I know I sound like a proper lazybones (which I am), but My Darling takes care of my diet to help counteract the poisons of treatment—and I don’t argue.
The skrummy scran was everything I hoped for, and I devoured it with joy. Over brunch, we decided to pop down to see A & S’s new place and bring them a little fizz to celebrate. Afterward the chat, we chose to lounge in the big-TV room and continued watching our Chinese drama, Love in the Kitchen, which we’re both loving.
My back pain persisted, so I retreated to the other rocker at the back of the room, away from My Darling’s warm hand. I felt like a bit of an interloper, hiding and quietly whinging to myself.
Mid-afternoon we wandered down to the new house. The front and back gardens—if you can call them that—were a wilderness of overgrown chaos. Exploring them felt like stepping into an undiscovered land. But signs of life were emerging as they began to cut things back, and even I could see the potential.
Inside was no better—tired, neglected, and tough on the senses—but again, full of potential. They shared some of their ambitious plans, and because they don’t need to live there during the rebuild, their smiles only grew.
We opened a bottle of zero-alcohol fizz and poured it into the flutes we brought along, toasting to their future. We stood there, clinking glasses in the middle of chaos, but filled with optimism.
After gentle hugs and warm wishes, we made our way home—hearts lifted, bodies less so. My own pain had worsened.
I won’t go on about it, other than to say I was in bed by 7pm, writhing until sleep overtook the agony. I’d hoped it would ease. Now I know it’s here to stay. I’ll call the nurse Monday if it doesn’t settle. Maybe a change in meds is on the cards—but the thought of upping things so soon doesn’t sit well.
To those living with chronic pain: I salute you. I’m struggling—not just with the pain, but the idea of it becoming a constant. For two weeks I felt fine, and now… well, I’ll have to shout louder and sooner if it worsens.
Health snapshot
Appetite good (especially for biscuits)
Blood and heart behaving
Pain: a real pain in the arse
Just five days until the scan results—fingers crossed for good news.
The Bus is bumpy, but it’s still rolling. Tomorrow is a new day :-)
P.S.
The moth in today’s image was spotted as we headed out to see the project house. It sat motionless on the pavement, either warming up or decaying—we weren’t sure. “Bing” says it’s an Oak Eggar… but don’t quote me on that.
I love its simple beauty.
