Post 183: A Lucky Break and Greased Paper.
Largely our garden’s been neglected,
But my Darling’s now detected
A bloom of immense rarity —
It’s more like a celebrity.
———
I listed at the top of the blog yesterday a few vitals that show I’m improving and stable — a way to remind myself (and others) that my writing is balanced between health and happiness. Sometimes I forget that I’m rambling on about life’s minor shortcomings or good times and lose sight of why I started doing this in the first place.
Anyway… I forgot to mention my bladder.
As a fellow prostate sufferer of some years, I can hereby declare that my baby bladder — which comes to us all — has finally been chased off into the sunset, replaced by a grown-up version with twenty times the liquid capacity. How, I hear you say? I’ve no idea. I’m not on tamsulosin, nor have I been to Turkey for a bladder enhancement on the NHS — but I’m loving it, especially at night.
So, I guess Millibob was right in saying, “There are more positives than negatives.” I’ll take that and count my blessings a little more carefully.
Today is cake-baking day, and as I crunch through my CNC (Crunchy Nut Cornflakes) fix — the noisiest breakfast of all time — the lovely smell of two massive bowls of fruit and brandy steeping overnight fills my nostrils when I get to the kitchen. It’s enough to make me nostalgic. I’ve got my old duties back: lining the baking tins with greaseproof paper for the Christmas cakes to lounge in for four glorious hours while the magic happens.
I’ve mentioned before that I’m slightly OCD — and when it comes to completing certain tasks, I’m fussier than most. But this used to be an annual tradition, and the four cakes this year are a welcome return to family norm. Since we all love fruit cake so much, there’s one each as a pre-Christmas gift — though one often disappears before the big day, thanks to hungry bellies and weak willpower.
So, I demolish another big bowl of CNC and turn my attention to the brand-new tins. With a measuring tape, trusty pencil, and sharp scissors in hand, I’m off. To say I get invested is an understatement. With Alexa playing Christmas tunes and my cuts carefully following the pencilled guide lines, a herd of elephants could’ve marched through the kitchen and I wouldn’t have noticed.
In no time at all, I’d achieved butter-and-paper perfection.
I cleared up and stood back, basking in the morning glow of satisfaction. All my Darling had to do now (yes, I’m delusional if I think that) was mix, pour, and bake. Simples.
As soon as I heard movement upstairs, I got the kettle on, made the tea, and waited like a puppy for her to pat me on the head and tell me how good I’d been. Am I really that shallow that I need instant gratification for a simple task? Yes, I am.
The next thing in today’s agenda was to use my Darling’s tie to the oven as an excuse to go for a walk — on my own — for the first time in a long while. With the cakes baking, I thought I might swing it, though I understand her reluctance to let me out of her sight. I wouldn’t push it.
While the warm, sweet smells began filling the house, I was itching to see an email reply for my urgent blood test. In fact, I was quietly upset that a whole day had already passed. I know I shouldn’t, but I crave PSA numbers like nothing else right now. A pest? Yes, I’m a pest. Deeply troubled by the colossal rise a few months ago that led to the current high numbers — and now, without treatment, who’s to say they won’t shoot up again?
So, unsettled but proactive, I picked up my mobile and rang the GP surgery. They said I’m on a priority list and will always be treated quickly. I pressed 1 to talk to a human and was number two in the queue. Perfect.
Within a few minutes, I had all my ducks in a row — a blood test slot at 2:15, just for me. Ha! I’m back on track. (Note to self: don’t forget to take the blood form.)
My Darling and I were catching up on Fraud (the new Jodie Whittaker series) and chilling on the blue sofa when it ended. I told her about my success, and she agreed to let me walk to town for the vampire session — alone.
And off I went.
It felt glorious. Just me, heading into town for a real good reason — simple, straightforward, alive. I walked at a quickish pace, tempted to kick the fallen leaves like the toddler I passed, swept up in the euphoria of being out and upright.
My trusty vampire had an apprentice today, who had a huge problem with my shy little veins. We got there in the end, though the elbow pillow looked like a scene from a low-budget crime drama.
I sped home — happy not just that the blood test was done, but that I’d also arranged the next one before my November pow-wow with Dr S. I was on a roll. I even broke into a sweat, with my legs straining but determined. I got home to glorious baking smells in the house and a new task: zesting oranges and lemons for the next batch.
By eight o’clock, cake number two was going to be finished in the oven, my eyes were closing, and my rib was really aching badly. So, I went to bed early, tired but happy. Team U were on top form today — no question.
Tradition dictates I’ll “feed” the cakes with a little brandy and wrap them up carefully for their long, patient maturing before Christmas. So, I’ll have similar duties tomorrow.
Till then — stay well, and if you can’t smell baked cake today, I’ll upload a scratch-and-sniff smell-a-vision photo just for you.
Till next time…
