Post 185: House boats and natter.
Living on an island just beside the sea
It’s easy to forget all they mean to me
———
After the good news yesterday from Nurse T, I awake in a healthier and happier mood than usual.
It’s not lost on me that every day is a gift, but equally, it’s hard to put on a smile if you’re worried inside.
For me personally, I’m now happy inside, and a new world is opening up to me.
But first, I’ll have to feed Mr V the cat — and tend to the two remaining cooled cakes sitting on the kitchen table, smelling delicious and looking a bit like Christmas.
One by one, and on both sides, the cakes are carefully soaked with brandy while I gently wrap them for their time in storage tins — where the newly baked ingredients will metamorphose into maturity in the dark, under the spare bed.
I’m fed last, and my Darling has now appeared, ready to pop next door for a tweak to her hair before we gather ourselves for a day out on the beach.
With only a week and a bit to her big day, she has an increasing number of things to consider — at home or on her person — and this colour and cut is a measure of the raising of all appearance factors before it’s too late.
I should explain that my Darling’s 60th is a curry night in town — nothing more than a sit-down dinner and a chat, but all the guests are close family or friends.
With all that’s gone on this year — with health and death around us — it’s a wonder it’s happening at all.
So we’re quietly excited, and so looking forward to what should have been a party actually happening.
So much has been swept away this year that our confidence has waned, which is why it’s a purposefully muted occasion.
Kev’s not around to be his usual funny self, and he’s partly the reason for our sensitivity right now.
Traditionally, all celebrations would be lost to strict standards about respect to the deceased — which, I feel, is why his family are still in so much pain.
He, Kev, was the glue that held the family together and, at times, the rightful king — so much so that there’s now a hush over most of the family as they all get over their loss.
We feel the show should go on — he’d like that — but on the other hand, we’re not ready to party like it’s 1999.
Enough said.
While her hair is coiffured next door, I’ve instructions to get showered and out of the way so the dye can be washed out at the desired time, etc.
I’m out the bathroom and getting dressed when she returns, and as I struggle with my socks sitting on my bed, she’s telling me our neighbour thinks I’d love the new celebrity Traitorsshow on TV — bla bla bla.
I continue half listening, half struggling with this damn sock that’s now stuck on my blinkin’ heel, and suddenly — after a yank of utter frustration — I scream in pain, leaving my Darling in shock and me in shock tears.
My possible chest pain, which I thought was a fractured rib, has finally been resolved.
What felt like a bullet in my ribs was definitely a break opening and closing on muscle or nerves around that area — a horrendous sharp pain for a few milliseconds — then, as I straightened up, a click as it popped back, and back to being (fairly) comfortable.
Both of us looked worried, but I remained calm and told her I was now okay — that I now knew for sure I had nothing more than a break that’s been causing this ongoing chest pain.
There’s absolutely nothing I can do, nor will it ever heal properly due to hormone therapy and my body’s inability to repair.
I’ll live with it and need to be more careful.
To be honest, it’s a relief to know what it is.
It’s been bugging me for a couple of months, but I can remember cracking that rib many many months ago — if it’s the same crack reopening.
My bones are fragile, and I really fear ever falling down because of the consequential damage.
But it’s another side effect of the cancer (and the ageing process), so I’ll put it on the list of things I need to be careful about.
With my day’s worth of pills in my pocket, I jump in the car and we head off to our Youngest’s place for a good look at how the modernisation is going on the building.
We’re mightily impressed with all the new features now coming together — turning the building site into a home.
At last, the bare walls are painted and the floor coverings are going down, but still, there’s much to do.
The two of them are finicky about the finish of everything — as one is likely to be — but that does add time to every big or small detail.
It’s hard for us to see when it’ll all end. However, it will be, by then, a masterpiece — their unique masterpiece.
We gather up coats and walking shoes and stroll off under a grey and threatening sky, now spitting invisible rain — which doesn’t last long or get us very wet.
The path we take is new to my Darling and me and passes by the old houseboats balancing on the mudflats.
This line of homes is a cocktail of life, mostly free from conformity.
For ever and a day, this tidal town grew out of nothing, on nothing.
The transient nature of the location, with its isolation, is perfect for the transient population of inhabitants — with all their quirks and creativity.
I guess it’ll always be like this.
It’s a place free from the state’s overpowering control, and that’s why, as I walk by looking over their castles in the mud, I feel calm — and slightly jealous of their freethinking, their freedom of living I can only dream of.
Some of the boats are artworks, others wrecks, but all lay side by side — all of them homes, all alive inside.
The path takes us over the bridge and into town, and while we’ve slipped into two pairs of chattering monkeys, we naturally steer ourselves into a pub for some four-way chats.
The afternoon pub feels like home to me, and the music seems to be all from the very early 80s — right up my street.
The conversations are flowing, as is the Prosecco and the Guinness Zero (who’d have thought that was a good idea?) slips down easily.
After the second round had been supped, there is an overly complicated discussion about where to eat or what food to take home.
A curry house around the corner was chosen, as my Youngest and his fiancée hadn’t tried it yet.
So off we went.
“The Finest Indian Cuisine,” was emblazoned on a swinging sign over the door.
I noted this — as that coffee shop in Elf was — in a celebratory, raised-voice way as we headed in, and wondered if it was actually true.
(True that it’s the finest, that is. I love that film.)
The long, thin room was full of empty tables, all dressed with cloth serviettes in the shape of turkey tails, and very neatly arranged.
It was still early evening, and we were absolutely ready to eat — so that’s what we did.
Finest?
Well, I have to say here and now that I have never licked a plate in a restaurant (or at home, actually), but I definitely could have here.
The Calcutta is now and forever in my heart — and is the finest by a mile.
Oh my!
I ordered a veggie Balti (make it spicy) and a garlic naan.
I got the most amazing curry I’ve ever eaten.
I could easily have licked the bowl.
I rarely finish everything, as the tendency is always to over-order sides — but I didn’t this time.
I wasn’t paying (or so my son thought), and I wanted nothing but a curry and naan.
No rice, no sides.
I was amazed how nice it was.
We chatted and ate the beautiful food.
Everyone agreed it was very good, and the service was smart and professional.
We’ll come here again, I thought.
I know my recovery is in all sorts of different areas of life — my mind and body to start with, obviously — but little things, like the taste buds on my tongue and the enjoyment of a plate of food, are also improving.
My legs and arms are still weak but improving.
My brain fog is clearing, my eyes are looking farther forward into the distance more and more, and chairs are becoming friends again.
I had the best day out.
I really enjoyed the company, the food, and the comfort of my family around me — without having to be looked after.
I was an independent and normal Mr U for a change.
I hope this is the new normal.
I think it is.
Time will tell.
Although the blog today is a diary of simple things that might mean nothing to anyone else, I’ve quietly had a day out that’s reinforced my faith in myself — and shown me it’s maybe not always the big, funny, exciting, extraordinary things I should be trying to force myself and my Darling into arranging.
There’s so much more we can enjoy closer to home.
I want to make memories and have struggled to, because of the pressure I put on myself — especially to think outside the box.
But today showed a different side to what enjoyment is.
Memories come from every minute of the day, not just the moments of magic we try to conjure up in a blaze of arrangements.
———
My rib was a pain today, but that’s all my fault. I’ll mention it to Dr S next month and wonder if the MRI will pick it up — just to prove it’s there.
It’s the end of a good week for me, and Big Sis is here for lunch tomorrow — my favourite sitter.
Till then, ta-ta.
