Post 323: Hard graft in the garden and the far north.
When it comes down to it there’s nothing like a bit of fresh air.
I had heard my Darling go to work in the dark this morning at silly o’clock so I knew I could do pretty much what I liked in the back garden when the sun rises, especially as it’s the garden waste bin pick-up this week.
I paid for it — I will fill the bin up, if I can.
After a cereal breakfast I struggled into my red overalls I always used for car mechanics, but more lately for a bit of gardening. I could barely get my arms in so I sat down on a chair and struggled a bit more, eventually getting them on.
I slid a beanie on and knotted the work boots on my feet with ease.
I say with ease because although I’ve not mentioned it lately, my oedema seems to be well under control.
When I was in Tenerife on the first morning I put on my old sandals and within an hour wished I hadn’t. Not just because of the heat and the walking but because there were bare feet in them. I got a little burnt on my accessible bits and the fatness poured through the gaps in the leather.
After that experiment, which so didn’t work, I decided to put socks on under my walking shoes every day to hold my feet and ankles securely — which pleased my Darling no end.
So the sandals are still the only footwear I shouldn’t use, and the garden work boots were ideal for the job. Loose enough for a little swelling to impact during my garden work.
For an hour I toiled with the Japanese saw and hand fork, grappling with those pesky weeds that thrive in my garden and drive me mad — usually from afar.
The wheelie bin was nearly full of detritus by the hour’s end but I had cleaned up a few feet of the long beds I intend to attack before the spring has sprung.
Out with me were the small hedge sparrows and the horrible grating noise of the sea birds courting on a neighbour’s roof.
Our daffodils are still trying to push their way out of the ground where I buried them months ago.
Otherwise I was alone.
Even the cat thought I was mad.
He stayed in the warm kitchen.
Which is where I returned after my energies were exhausted.
With the kettle on I used up the last of the decaffeinated coffee grounds in my one-mug cafeteria to warm me up.
Seven and a half tablespoons of grinds with ninety-degree water for three minutes makes a delicious mug of delightful decaf.
While I counted the seconds to plunge the filter down I pondered when I could pop down town to refill my air-tight grounds tin. Hopefully this week.
With the satisfaction of the garden work done earlier I sat down to a mighty sandwich and some fruit while checking the notifications on my phone.
Oh my — there were loads of them.
Mostly replies via the online Macmillan platform but plenty from my pal from up north, where they do things differently.
She had researched a local hospice, asking for information about respite stays and profiling beds. My age is a problem because I’m under sixty-five, and the beds come from a website that looks like about £100 for two weeks all inclusive.
So it looks likely that I can get somewhere soon but maybe the best idea is to wait for better weather in Cumberland.
There was no news from the travel agent about a Canary Island treat but I’m sure things will get going again on Monday.
So as for a holiday at the end of the month I’m stuck.
I did however get a couple of emails from hotels in Ireland. One only has upstairs rooms and no lift and the other has no possibility of a profiling bed in their split rooms.
So we are pretty much back to the start.
The whole reason for these endeavours was to get a late booking away somewhere, which we thought was going to be pretty easy — but it hasn’t been as easy as it looks in the Jet2 holidays adverts.
Ah well, I can’t complain.
I’m fit and healthy and ready for anything.
It could be worse.
I have the TV to divert my attention but as I turned it on it was a programme about a hotel in the Benidorm sunshine.
What a tease.
My Darling came back from work and is now off for three weeks.
Will we get away or not?
We don’t know — but we are ready to fly at a moment’s notice.
Good luck and good night.
