Post 144: Chocolate treats and graveyard chatter.
Is there anything better than a good scratch in the morning, before you get into gear for a new day? I don’t think so.
———
I’m lying in bed counting up my aches and pains, hoping there are fewer than yesterday, while my Darling sleeps beside me making cute little guinea-pig squeaks as she dreams away, oblivious to the dawn breaking outside.
It’s too early to get up anyway, but I can ponder and review a Friday that ended the week in a friendly and beautiful way — except for just one thing. So I’ll get that over with now and then I’m all clear to the end of the blog.
Late afternoon a call came — a bit of a surprise, but it shouldn’t have been.
This morning I’d had the pre-chemo blood test at the local surgery, the usual routine, and it went without a hitch. I actually felt proud of myself for insisting on walking into town. My Darling wasn’t happy with the idea — I’m not to be trusted alone — but I pulled a rabbit out of the hat by reminding her she could monitor my every step with the Find My Phone app. She eventually relented, and as I kissed her goodbye I felt alive and normal for once.
I was soon feeling my legs asking for a slower pace on the uphill stretches of the mile and a half, but I kept going. Nothing broke. It was a relief to see the surgery ahead, but by then I’d hit a rhythm and was enjoying the autumnal warmth. Very glad I’d clipped on my shades — the sunshine was dazzling.
After the vein had been located and drained, I was free to enjoy the day — at least until my Darling met me in the café at one o’clock. (By the way, where does the o’ in o’clock come from? Answers on a postcard…)
So I had three hours to bide. First, a mission at the IFE (Independent Financial Experts) to fill in some forms.
Yesterday they’d rung me asking to check my emails, sign, and return something. Now, I’m not a div’, but I thought to myself: don’t mess this up. The email even said, “if you need help filling out the forms you can ring for assistance.” So I did. A 10:30 appointment was made, so that’s where I headed after the surgery pitstop.
It was a five-minute walk through town, no rush and plenty of time. As I wandered along minding my own business I noticed a long queue spilling out of an old building in the distance ahead of me. Odd I thought. As I got closer it became clear — a food bank. Happy people leaving with bags of essentials and goodies. My heart sank. I didn’t really know what to think, except I’m glad charities exist to help. It felt like the USSR bread shortages in the ’70s and ’80s where the queues were miles long. Who’d have thought a country like ours would be doing this now? Hey-ho.
I passed the queue. Around the corner, across the road to the manicured walled gardens that surrounded the IFE offices. They’re making far too much money, it seems (only joking). I walked up the meandering path, smelling the blooms on the way, and buzzed the door — though it was wide open. A smiling face invited me past a standing suit of armour and a full-sized clown. Eclectic doesn’t begin to describe it. I was directed to sit on a pair of what looked like 1960s jet plane seats, but before I could use them the assistant appeared like the shopkeeper from Mr Benn and whisked me off to sign my life away. Five minutes later I was back in the sunshine, forms complete.
Free of chores, I drifted toward the “dead centre” of town — the parish church and graveyard. (No excuses for the pun.) I sat on a bench, pulled out my phone, and rang my narrowboat mate, long neglected. My oldest pal — four months my senior — we were either best mates or rivals, but stuck together through thick and thin.
He picked up on the third ring. Usually that meant he wasn’t captaining his 90-foot home along a canal. This time he announced he was in an Aston Martin Vantage (model details forgotten) in the south of France.
“Oh my,” I thought. Amazing.
He told me the reason for the trip, how it was going wonderfully, and that he’d be back next week for a proper catch-up. Half an hour of non-stop chatter later I left him to his Sat-nav and sunny French roads.
What a thought — driving a stunning car through another country, and paid for the privilege too. Just wonderful. Perhaps I should… but I can’t. (Yes, yes, “there’s no such thing as can’t.” But really — how do I explain Diana-Ria stains on bright red leather seats during a slippy-slidy day?)
Moving swiftly on, I next called my pals A & S, who I’d be meeting at the café later. “A” was scraping the front door of their bungalow, prepping it for a new coat of paint as it’s soon to be on sale. I suggested he stay put, but he wanted a break and promised they’d join me in the graveyard in ten minutes - and they did.
After hugs and a very long catch up, it was time for the short walk to the café where we met the other Friday “reprobates” for food, hot drinks, and a bit of fun. I think my appearance lifted the mood — I don’t often feel like going, and this rarity meant they didn’t have to worry or wonder how I was, because they could see me in person. Delightful chatter ensued, ending too soon. We all departed our separate ways with hugs and loving farewells.
My Darling had the car, thankfully, because I was tired from my exertions.
While I rested in the rocker after getting home she caught up with her siblings in Ireland.
Until…
[And this is what I was trying to tell you at the beginning, before the shaggy-dog story took hold.]
Ring. Ring.
“Hello.”
“Yes, this is he.”
A cheerful voice from the cancer day unit asked if I’d attend Monday for cycle five. “Yes,” I said, “if my bloods are ok and my PSA is down.”
Her tone dropped. “I’ve not heard anything about this.”
I asked if she knew my PSA. “No,” she said. With that she ran through the usual pre-chemo checklist and rang off, leaving me disappointed and a little embarrassed.
I’ll probably have a black mark by my name now — Note: take plenty of sweets on Monday.
I’m sure the PSA will be down and the Carboplatin will continue as planned - as was arranged at yesterday’s meeting.
———
My legs are resting on the footstool, to reduce oedema on my ankles, my tummy’s gurgling like there’s no tomorrow. Goodbye constipation, hello Diana Ria.
My spirits are better since yesterday’s meeting, and so are my Darling’s.
The test drive of the new car was cancelled. My Darling’s relieved, and I’m relieved that she’s relieved — though disappointed not to have had a spin.
Oh, and before I go: my Darling surprised me with a massive bag of chocolate treats as an apology for the recent upset.
My cup runneth over.
So I’m still waiting for Monday’s bus. I’ll jump back on if the PSA is lowering — and if I bribe the staff with sweets.
Have a great weekend everypeeps. 
️
