Post 78: Bloods and a Bus Ride.
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When faced with a challenge, think quickly and decisively.
(And then… try not to lose your cool when the bus is early; or late?)
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My Darling came downstairs looking like she’d stepped out of a glossy magazine — all done up, with a mischievous glint in her eye.
For a second I panicked, thinking I’d forgotten an important engagement, but instead, she said brightly:
“Shall we get on the bus to the county town and go out for the day?”
Relief. Joy. Gratitude.
She’d dressed up for me.
“Wonderful idea!” I said, and we were out the door.
Bloods had been drawn earlier today (a lesson learned after last week’s hiccup and chemo delay), and with no other appointments, a little adventure seemed just the ticket.
Also, with no internet or TV thanks to the ongoing router saga — anything involving scenery and snacks was a win.
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We headed off, cheerful and ambling — until, of course, the bus betrayal.
We were a couple of gardens away from the end of the road when I saw our bus already whizzing past.
I exploded. A full Victor Meldrew moment:
“I don’t bloody believe it!” I thundered, as though the entire county timetable was a personal affront to me.
My Darling, seasoned as she is in dealing with these spasms of irrational fury, calmly checked the bus app and pointed out — we were fine.
That one had been late, not early, and we were actually bang on schedule.
Still, I sulked. Like a schoolboy whose prized conker had been confiscated.
She quietly said:
“Every time you do that over-the-top flying off the handle, I feel like killing you.”
And added, “You’re prone to spasms of rage.”
Oof.
There it was — the mirror I didn’t want to look into.
It stung. Because it was true.
I felt ashamed. A burden. The very thing I don’t want to be.
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The bus arrived. I climbed up top without a word.
Then, to my surprise, she followed. She sat beside me, gave me a cuddle, and flashed that smile that says: “You’re an idiot. But you’re my idiot.”
Forgiven. Again.
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We rolled into town and headed straight to our favourite brunch spot.
Windows wide, breeze soft, food exceptional.
The earlier drama faded fast. Sunshine, good eggs, and no responsibilities will do that.
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Back pain crept in post-brunch, so I thought I’d call the local hospice for advice.
Except… no phones.
Neither of ours were working. Cell service: gone.
A 3three store nearby confirmed an outage.
No internet. No landline. Now no mobile.
Seriously — what next?
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Paracetamol kicked in, so I suggested a gentle walk.
No hills, My Darling pleaded. Fair enough. So I led us the scenic route — past forgotten pubs, a Turkish bathhouse-turned-mind-centre, and on toward one of my favourite secret corners: Grange Gardens.
You’d never know it was there.
A small gap in an old flint wall. Shady rhododendrons leading to an old estate building.
And peace.
We wandered slowly, stopping for designer ice cream — honeycomb and chocolate fudge — and sat watching mums and children play under towering trees.
The kind of place where you feel gently removed from time. Carefully curated chaos in the beds, rambling paths, and an unkempt elegance that soothed us both.
In the quiet of a semi-formal Victorian garden, we sat on a bench with blackbirds and robins singing around us.
It felt like the town’s best-kept secret, and we were the lucky ones who found it.
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The return journey took us via one final stop — a charming pub we knew well, just steps from the bus.
We’d already chosen our meal hours before, so no dithering: two Ploughman’s — one Stilton, one Cheddar, shared equally.
Piled high with grapes, pickles, apples, hot rolls, and a pint of warm ale (my first in months).
Satisfying in every sense of the word.
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We got home just before the sky turned dusky.
Mr Vicious was performing his usual starving-cat dramatics.
Fed him, of course.
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Tomorrow is chemo. Round 2.
Carboplatin, here we come.
Strangely, I feel calm. Prepared.
A good day out, a gentle reset, and now a readiness to roll up my sleeve and get back in the ring.
Wish me luck.
