Salad Days

This week has flown by in a flurry of goodness and joy the like of which has probably been unmatched this year. There have been downsides as we must expect, the worst arriving on Wednesday lunchtime.

Over a week ago the antibiotics ran their course so I had almost a fortnight off chemo and a few days off them. The Saturday was great so I did too much and Sunday wasn't as good but Monday was wonderful. Making us and our visitors coffees on request and feeling good.

Tuesday the anticipation of being infused during the afternoon could easily have led to the onset of gloom, doom, woe and debilitation. That it wasn't is down to our visitors from London who we haven't seen in ages but should have been with in Keswick recently. Their presence made the morning pass through sunny glades of memories rekindled and news of events of personal import which always lend perspective and the act of listening because you're interested in them and their story overwhelms your own.

But the afternoon did come and the questions and the needle and chemo #7 and the sleep. Thus Tuesday ended with pink pills and Wednesday started with them. Waking up would not be an apt description of Wednesday lunchtime but I was able to recognise the time and act appropriately.

Sat at the table it all went so wrong and but for my ever attentive overseer I may have begun the descent of a slippery slope. I craved green stuff. All I wanted was salad. I had a plate upon which was a pile of green stuff, to which I added salt and brown liquid from a posh looking bottle, a designer bottle if you will.

How that happened when the salad cream was next to it I can only put down to the mist of chemistry. But I did drizzle dressing where salad cream should have gone. I did enjoy the green stuff to which halved and lightly salted tomatoes were added. Only moments before these tiny toms had been hanging from their plant in the greenhouse and delicious they were.

Then it hit me. I was turning veggie. The appalling vision of a veggie me could not be disguised by the chemically altered brain. I thought that I could end up subscribing to The Guardian when I visited their website, that I may look to the BBC for news again, indeed for a moment I did think that I may go all oooooh, aaaaaaah, and gooey at the sight of uncooked animals.

Fortunately my oversight was in the very best of hands and at that very moment just before awareness congealed into despair two rashers of back bacon were delicately placed on the side of my plate recently piled high with picturesque dressed leaves that would have been worthy of a photo on the website of many, if not most of the current crop of foodie sites.

Not, I hasten to add on Giorgio Locatelli's who had a design for stodged up tomato with garlic and onion, some red pepper and chorizo. It would have been totally lovely but for the fact that I added sliced cooked sausages. Actually, the real problem may have been that he said loads of tomatoes and a bit of onion. He also said that following recipes slavishly was not the way to do it. Taste was.

So, liking onion I put in far too much and nowhere near enough tomatoes. In fairness I should point out that I used all the large tomatoes that my gardener gave me so it could be argued that she should have picked more. She gave me the onions as well. Watching from a distance she was also ready to jump in with a pan of noodles when it became apparent that I'd forgotten about getting the spaghetti going whilst concentrating on watching the reduction in tomato juice taking place in pan one.

How can you watch what's happening in one pan when you're expected to be doing stuff with another one? This is a mystery to me but eventually noodles were having a lumpy reddish oniony garlicy slop deposited over them with as much delicacy as could be managed. It wasn't worthy of a photo but both plates were emptied.

As they were on Monday tea time when I did teriyaki chicken. I cooked twice in a week which tells you a) how good a week it's been and b) things are still not as they were. It is also not without significance that neither of us have ever had these concoctions before and therefore no standard by which to make a judgement as to their quality. That is smart cooking!

It would seem the cycle 1 was attacked by over eager steroids and cycle 2 undermined by out of control infection that may have been present for a very long time but had for reasons unknown chosen cycle 2 to come out of the closet of my liver ducts intent on making mischief, which it did for a time with great success. Thankfully it wasn't as smart as the doctors arraigned against it.

Cycle 3 has begun in a surprisingly benign manner. Slept pretty much from Tuesday afternoon till Thursday morning when I woke up awake. Perhaps this was the most significant event for quite some time.

I even began the process of perusing a hard drive specifically dedicated to .jpg .cr2 and .raf files from 2002 to last February. Although it didn't take long for memories to overwhelm the physical effort of constant clicking before thoughts turned to the garage where proper stuff needed doing.

The intent was there but it only took 10 minutes to remove half the number of coach bolts necessary to remove a vice from a worm riddled bench before the tiredness set in. I consider it a victory that I gave in to it, lay down for a while and waited for its dispersal. Then I tried again but gave up till the following day. I can announce that when the whole family visited at the weekend the boys now men lifted my ancient bench with youthful ease and deposited it outside ready to be dumped.

So, chemo cycle 3 a wonder to experience which is far more than can be said of my cooking.

It's been a very good week. Our London friends left me with a copy of Amateur Photographer which answered a colour management question that has eluded me for ages and rekindled my desire to sort photos for over a decade neglected. And just yesterday morning a friend dropped in and left a photographic book to inspire both in black and white and in colour.

Thus, this very morning I saw a photo that just sums up the joy of having a house full of lively offspring and partners so I took it whilst I could and processed it immediately as I ought.

Taken with a fully recharged X100T which is a truly great camera and very, very light. Which is just as well as our grandson's father needs to borrow the 5D3 just as I was getting to grips with it again. Trying to get to grips with it really, as my right thumb trembles a bit under weight and pressure. A Canon 5D3 is not light and the right thumb does need to apply pressure to use its functionality effectively.

A great week, but still a way to go. Mustn't get too optimistic although the prospect of a much better way than hitherto is a reason to rejoice.

As are visits from family and friends, only them far more so.

The essence of offspring. Pure joy, utter delight.

The Metronome of Life

The relentless click, clack of metronomic steadiness which stabilises the rhythm of life has taken a knock or two lately. Sometimes it's raced ahead and sometimes lagged behind, even on occasion pausing for just long enough to be noticed. It is an unsteadying experience.

It's hard enough exchanging the familiar faces at church on a Sunday for those in Cherryade on Tuesday, it's harder in some ways to forego trips North, East and West to visit family with infrequent but fairly regular forays South in pursuit of a million shades of blue instead of uniform greyness at this latitude. Things for so long taken for granted now unceremoniously washed from the security of the ground they seemed happily cemented to.

At least there was Test Match Special or TMS. I still utterly dislike the BBC and believe it should be made a subscription service in which case I'd pay for TMS. My carer would no doubt add Poldark to the list, quite why when she has her own proper Cornishman I don't know, she'd add Gardener's World and numerous cooking programmes to the list as well. I've not watched any of them, I did once watch Nigella make a Girdle Buster Pie but it was never made here so that was my interest squashed immediately.

But TMS has been the background beat throughout my life. My (deaf) Granda used to watch the cricket on BBC tv in black and white, of course. He'd shout, lean forward and argue with batsmen, bowlers and umpires but all you could hear was the grey concrete block sized Perdio radio sat on the mantlepiece as close to his right ear as it could be blaring out the LW, 198m commentary from the TMS team. The stentorious tones of John Arlot was summer.

I've gone to sleep listening to TMS in Australia or NZ, I used to do my decorating after work to TMS from the Caribbean, indeed the late Tony Cozier had a lilting voice that so emulated the transfer of emulsion from tin to wall. I'm not even sure I'm that interested in the cricket but I remember Tony Cozier once filling in a slow over rate with his observations on the taxi to the ground. Many years ago, he said, the roads were fine, the taxis rubbish, the drivers delightful, now the roads are rubbish, the drivers a bit awkward but the taxis are all new. That's the trouble in these islands, he said, the me has become more important that the us. I think that is profound and reflects the way our world has moved. Brilliant social observation.

I can even tell you that on the day my daughter was born Sri Lanka put over 600 runs on the board. It was a Saturday.

It's also a source of great comedy. During the recent third test against RSA Jonathan Agnew wound up Sir Geoffrey with a very clever reappraisal of his 100th 100. Google is your friend. Its up there with Cliff Mitchelmore's Spaghetti Trees.

Even though a bit ill TMS in the background is a source of great pleasure and escapism. Thus, when really not very good I looked forward to the fourth test. At 1045 on Friday morning a week or two ago Mr.Agnew was missing and in his place a commentator explained that he was with his wife, Emma, as she began chemo for breast cancer that very morning. It was a terrible start to the day.

Opposite is a photo of them taken (without permission, yet) from his website. It resonates far louder than any metronome. It's all in the eyes. Great portraits are about the eyes. Robert Capa's greatest photos tell stories in the eyes of his subjects. Mr.Agnew's eyes tell the story. I have looked at those eyes in my dearest treasure when I get plumbed in, the same as Mrs.Agnew, albeit my syringe is clear not pink. Obviously, it's better for me as I get to gaze at the pretty one, in their case Mrs.Agnew has Mr.Agnew to gaze at. Oh, well.

The eyes tell the story, the smiles, too. The patient, a smile of relief that treatment is under way, the other a somewhat forced smile of one who wants to encourage despite all the innermost thoughts associated with a trip into the unknown. That photo speaks volumes to me and on his website he notes that he prays for her recovery. Indeed, I pray for them both, too.

It was such a shame that TMS began thus as the last fortnight has not been a good one. My last two Thursdays have ended up back in Cherryade. The first blogged earlier and the last, a shorter stay just long enough to get the BP up, heart rate down and temperature a few degrees lower. All of which they did.

Describing the last two weeks as hard is pretty fair, very short periods of intense nauseaousness but thankfully, so far no vomiting. It doesn't last long enough to get an anti sickness pill usually but it really isn't nice and leaves you reeling a bit.

Far worse is the tiredness, you can't fight it you just have to give in to it. Thus, the pattern is being established. Tuesday infusion, sleep till Thursday, feel good for an hour on Thursday morning, crash back to bed before lunchtime and then have your temperature taken. Once it passes 38°C the telephone consultation begins and I end up laid out in Cherryade.

After the first time I was put on antibiotics, at the second I was taken off the chemo tablets and the antibiotics were doubled and the course extended. It was considered that my body couldn't cope with the chemo. Unfortunately the duty doctor assumed that I was nearing the end of the course not on the second of six months. This was a pity as my usual cancer nurse told me the previous Tuesday that the next cycles would really push your body. Seems it's been pushed a bit already so there's a review on Monday.

In the meantime the absence of chemo is being noted but the presence of antibiotics is blurring the lines and the brain but in different ways. Thus my week off chemo has become nearly a fortnight but the antibiotics don't stop till Friday so my week of pill freedom is reduced to but a few precious days.

However, feeling  good right now, sun shining and the breeze is gentle. Can't do much but doing anything at all is so sweet. It doesn't matter that its taken days to do what should take minutes, it's the doing that matters.

And TMS is back with the first West Indian test, a day night test with a pink ball. How appropriate when TMS now brings Mrs.Agnew into ones thoughts but she must be doing OK as Mr.Agnew is on TMS. But he left early.

TMS was listened to today, but the the cricket was secondary and the mind frequently wandered to contemplate the prospect of the days ahead. Particularly tomorrow when the antibiotics end and I need to get a haircut.  I guess it'll take a miracle to save WI from defeat at Edgbaston but miracles on the cricket pitch rarely happen.

Fortunately for us, in the cancer wards they happen every day. And I pray that good news is announced about the time of the first or second Ashes tests which will restore the metronomic rhythm of the commentary. I hope to be listening, at least to the first few overs each night. I'm looking forward to it as I trust are the Agnews.

Now, I'd better ask for permission to use their photo.

The Abolition of Normality

I have just rubbed udder cream into the soles of my feet, specifically the balls of my feet behind the toes and the heels, just in case anyone was even slightly interested.

This is not normal. I am not known for loitering in the vicinity of male grooming outlets. I have never understood why after shave is worthy of so much TV time, nor razors for that matter, I just don't get the spray it all over adverts since 'enry Cooper stopped spraying whatever it was he sprayed. Brut, I think.

However, udder cream seems to help with the sore feet. Sadly, I recognise the pattern too late. The same thing happened 24-36 hours after chemo #5 and now it's barely 40 hours since chemo#6, which went well.

The real bummer is that I mentioned it in hospital last week and this was taken as an excuse to order new slippers, not that I needed them. Thus, I now have new slippers, not just any slippers but M&S slippers and very nice they are, too. They just don't quite fit like the old ones.

My now old slippers lie in a wicker bin from which they need rescuing. They have hardly been used over the last 20 or 30 years, most used in the last 6 months. I recall using them abroad where civilization mocks our carpeted floors as they can revel in the cool joy of ceramic and stone tiled floors. But you get used to slippers.

I know that they're not in the best of health and haven't aged particularly well but I've kept them going. As each of the moccassin threads has unravelled I have managed to keep upper and sole together with appropriately sized and correctly trimmed cable ties. I could easily find something to stick inside them to cover the worn out areas, notably the soles and heels which initially, and incorrectly took the blame for my udder creamed feet. You just can't throw stuff away because it's old, can you?

The feet are the result of chemo. We were warned but it just sounded a bit far fetched all those weeks ago, which actually wasn't that long ago. Chemo screws with any notion of normality. I can see the start of patterns but what constitutes normal I have no idea.

At each chemo the cancer nurse asks a zillion questions, mostly about my wee, poo, feelings of nausea, vomit and tiredness.  When I say I've been in bed for umpteen hours I'm told it's normal. I don't need to discuss other aspects but these, too, are considered normal. I sit and struggle but mostly I want to scream out just to say it's not normal. It is not in any way normal.

Normal is getting up and doing stuff, normal is visiting family, normal is visiting friends, normal is going to church on Sunday, normal is flying to warm places, normal is catching a ferry and driving on deserted French roads stopping to sample le baguettier, le patissier, le boulangier et aussi le supermarchè, or le supermercado.

Normal is doing the loadsajobs I ought, indeed want to do. I want to touch up and repaint the areas affected by the replacement windows fitted before Christmas. I want to build a shed, I want to fit a mortice lock to the front door. It is normal for me to be able to do such things and normally I do.

Normal is enjoying an outdoors summer, normal is riding bikes along tow paths and stopping for a pint and cheesy chips in a not too busy pub. Normal is pointing my camera at whatever composition catches my eye. Normal is putting the world to rights over a pint or two with friends.

Normal is a wife who, very occasionally and never without justification, fusses, moans and complains at my uselessness and constant invocation of dreckly. Now that I am totally useless she offers nothing but support, help, calmness, control and decisiveness with frequent displays of ill disguised anxiety. It's called love, in sickness and in health.

It is not normal for her to rub udder cream into my feet because i just can't manage even that now.  It may be that she will react normally when she sees that I've rescued the old slippers from the bin into which she indelicately pressed them. I was instructed to wear socks but you can't do that in summer, it's not normal and I don't want to ruin my new M&S slippers when they're only a day or two old, do I?

Normality may never be what it once was but normal this is not.

On Holidays

The hours before Mondays blood tests are generally only subject to the lightest of chemical mist, once tablets are effective it rapidly thickens to chemical fog and once a week it darkens further. Monday and Tuesday mornings, early tend to be pleasantly misty. Last Monday it was sufficiently clear to feel quite sad.

Last week we should have been in Keswick with friends staying in a large house and doing what we do. Largely this entails enjoying whatever Keswick Ministries has to offer, although I confess that each year I attend fewer events and absorb significantly less than I once did. It also means trips to The Old Keswickian, fish and chips, Booths, ready meals, beer and wine, the market, cheese and lemon curd, Friars Crag, a walk of intense loveliness, Bassenthwaite and Derwent Water, cycle round them, sundry other lakes and hills, walks. Meeting people, not my forte but I'm good at dispensing liquid refreshment while the people people dispense bonhommie and pearls of wisdom.

This year we couldn't go but last week we should have gone. Texts, messages and a card were reminders of what was and a delight they were, too. Inevitably, as the major casualty in our holiday plans thus far, I fear to dwell on the prospect of a January - February totally spent in Britain, it did elicit a firm reminder of what could have been.

Monday morning was passed in the company of two ex colleagues, one seen more often than the other, who were in a mood to talk holidays in general and Southern Spain in particular, Seville to be specific. We'd never considered Seville but the past week has seen books, Google and atlases pored over. Seville meets most of the criteria needed and the ones it misses may not be significant.

Seville came up in conversation on Thursday prior to hospital embarkation and elicited a rather enthusiastic, well, if you do book it up book it for four. Automatically Seville ascended to the top rung of the aspirational ladder of places to go.

I have (thoroughly) planned a Grand Tour of France, including bits of Spain, Italy and Switzerland but that is more of a distant dream than anything approaching fulfilment. It would be nice but if it never happens it has filled endless hours of traipsing along the back roads of Google Earth as well as pages of PowerPoint. It has served it's purpose.

In hospital on Friday afternoon my faithful traveling companion and organiser arrived with an iPhone filled with news from the north. A place has been booked for all of us for our week in 2018.

We now have a holiday booked for next year.

Lake, hills, landing stage, distant rain.

I struggle to find words to express what a difference it makes just knowing that there are dates on the calendar of a holiday in 2018. Whilst I hope there will be others, Seville sounds a nice place, the emotionl significance of Keswick 2018 cannot be understated. It just lifts whatever it is that needs lifting.

And even if none of it ever becomes a reality, it doesn't matter as it has already made a joyful mark in the chemically murky mind and will inevitably lead to hours of Googlation and contemplation.

No doubt that as the fog rolls in and thickens to impenetrable gloom later, thoughts will dwell on the wonderful grey, damp, clagginess and overwhelming grandeur of The Lakes in summer as well as the warmth, sun and mystery presented by places in Southern Spain we've never been to.

It's not about the places, it's all about the people.
How fortunate we are.

An Englishman, an Irishman, a Welshman and a Cornishman.

I smiled, inwardly but not too obviously outwardly on Friday morning as the Welshman in the next bed ordered a fried breakfast, detailing how he'd like his bacon and each of the other components. In short, he detailed a full English but elected black pudding not Hogg's Pudd'n but what would you expect from Welshman? Finally he required two slices of dark white toast. The Welsh lilt has become rather familiar in recent years but the response to his request was that he could have toast and Rice Krispies, Corn Flakes or muesli. He wasn't a happy boyo, in fact he was just a tad aggrieved but the breakfast lady gently explained that this hospital didn't do fried breakfasts.

The fact that I found this so amusing was a source of great encouragement as it meant that I was once again in possession of a functioning brain cell that was able to find another functioning brain cell to engage with.

Friday had begun at dawn with a softly spoken nurse informing me that he had to do my obs. Automatically I presented my right arm and opened my mouth. I'd have offered the left arm as well but for the realisation that it was canulated and a conduit for a triplet of bags, saline, antibiotic and paracetamol. My BP was low, my pulse OK and my temperature was normal. Hooray!

Tuesday's Chemo #5 went well, I think. I met our next door neighbour on the way in which was a delight as he was engrossed in building a shed to disguise a container. He's a great shed builder and each morning I observe his Uber Shed and I melt with envy, the more so as my eyes lower to the tiny patch of concrete awaiting the results of my seriously behind schedule shed building project. At least it will never be as far behind as HS2 and I suspect it will be infinitely more useful.

A brief chat and I was in and swiftly sat in a chair, canulated at the third attempt and infused. Once again the antihistamine replacement for the steroid had me asleep in no time. Next thing I knew it as time to go home. Felt a bit drowsy but otherwise all was OK.

Home, tea, bed, sleep. All night but almost all Wednesday was slept through as well.

Thursday seemed worse. Breakfast was an opportunity to exercise dodderiness that was definitely more developed than usual. Got up at lunchtime to do lunch with some visiting friends. I wasn't very hungry but I tried and then retired to bed before lunch was done with. That's how bad I felt. The more so since I'd been looking forward so much to doing lunch with a couple who have been terrific to us during this past lifetime and with whom we have done breakfast for ages and always in delightful places with breakfasts that would have broken a Welshmans heart. Some nearly broke my stomach but now that my stomach is broke it'll take a while before we do breakfast again. Sadly.

Sleep came swiftly but I was awoken by the carer, thermometer in hand, then in mouth. Not good. 38 point something from which at 20 minute intervals it continued to rise. A phone call, instructions and within an hour I was bedded in Cherryade, canulated and dripped. It's all a bit of a blur but as usual my chronicler was able to answer every question put.

Cherryade closes at 1800 at which point I was the only patient there. I was still the only patient when collected and taken to AMU and put in a bed by the window.

The evening changeover was just about to start so before very long I was attended by nurses and then doctors. One, of Chinese origin, was brilliant. By now my escort had returned to her home port and was, I hoped, tasting the red. It was a forlorn hope as her hope was a phone call to come and get me. That was a forlorn hope as well.

This doctor quietly asked a whole string of questions the answers to which were probably gibberish but next morning he came with a consultant and told him all he needed to know. One of his questions had been the name of the drugs I was on. I hadn't a clue but next morning I could tell him it was Gemcytobeam and Capcitobeam or at least that's what they sounded like. He smiled and showed me the previous nights form. He was a very clever man. I suspect the questioning was to establish more about my mental state than physical, after all they had lots of numbers to work from. Mostly good numbers apart from the ones confirming the fact but not source of the infection or the ones suggesting that the liver wasn't playing fairly.

The previous night he had ordered an ECG, duly carried out and a chest x-ray done very late at night but I was already in bed so it didn't matter how late it was. Now I was to have a ultrasound scan to examine the liver drainage system. Sounded a bit geographical to me but in due course I was once again parked amid pregnant ladies.

In the meantime an Englishman had been wheeled by paramedics into the bed opposite. It transpired that he'd had a new chair at home to enable him to get up from it. Mum had one, it was great fun and we probably shouldn't have got rid of it so soon. Anyway, the previous night he'd been in it and thought he'd dropped his hanky so he pushed his hand down by the seat squab but unable to locate it he elected to get up and look for it. Pressing the remote control before removing his other hand he turned the cantlivers into a guillotine.

He wrapped another hanky around it and went to bed. Early that morning, unable to stop the bleeding he rang 999. The paramedic got him to where he was now. Still bleeding profusely. First they put on a new dressing and elevated his hand but he had neither the strength to keep it elevated nor could he stay awake long enough.

A Scottish consultant arrived and declared that he shouldn't be in hospital, this is a job for his local A&E or even his GP she insisted. I suspect that she has been so incredibly busy in her life ascending the ladder of success that she is a bit out of touch with local A&E's as well as GP's surgeries. At no time did he complain about her comments or the pain of her examination, he was never anything but polite and grateful to every attentive nurse who dealt with him.

Did I mention that he gave up playing tennis when he was 81 and that he was a solicitor who loved living in a village known to many, that he loved amateur dramatics and the annual village play? No? He did all the time. He initially reminded me of Mrs.Marple, the Joan Hickson one, of course but after a while I realised that he'd got to that age when the past had become the present.

There he was, dapper, shirt and pullover tucked into his leather belted trousers that obviously once fitted him well. The staff realised, too. They got all manner of agencies involved in a short time and were wonderfully engaged with his wellbeing way beyond the mere mechanics of stopping a finger from bleeding, which took nearly all day itself.

His smile was pretty constant, too but it may be that his facial muscles had defaulted to that position.

I was visited by a cancer nurse who asked questions and offered explanations which boiled down to the fact I had an infection, my liver markers were of concern and a consultant would be along shortly.

Next to the Englishman was a very, very Irishman. It appeared that his presence was due to a sudden deterioration in his health at home where he was being nursed through his terminal cancer. He could only take full cream milk so nurses ensured that his mug was always half full. His visitors were cancer team players who explained that if he was happy they would ensure his removal back home where Hospice staff would meet him and take over his care henceforth. I think he knew as he was pretty sharp.

The rest of his morning was taken up with numerous medics and palliative care specialists who set up a more discreet driver. He was on his mobile phone for a whole series of calls in which he set up a meeting with solicitors to ensure that considerable, although probably not excessive, bonds were passed on to his soul mate. It seems that Irish law and English differ in some very important areas. Early afternoon a pair of black suited solicitors arrived and business undertaken in this ward. Quite remarkable, really.

When his soul mate arrived he was able to assure her of her future and the future of others. She went home to await his arrival which was sadly delayed, firstly by a wrong prescription being written and then by a mix up over hospital transport.

He was still there when I left which was late afternoon. The cancer nurse and consultant arrived informing me of the fact that the ultrasound scan had unearthed nothing that was unexpected (whatever that means) and concluded that I was sufficiently reduced in temperature and competent in bodily function to be allowed home with two boxes of three a day oral antibiotics. The liver markers would be monitored by the already scheduled blood tests. Wonderful but it took a few hours to get one of the antibiotics so we waited.

Tea time came and went as did the Welshman, about whom I had learned a lot having made a song and dance about using the ward telephone to phone his daughter in law. It was suggested that he used his mobile but he insisted that he used the ward phone. Graciously they allowed him to do so and placed a chair at the foot of my bed from which he conversed. Loudly.

After tea time a porter came to take him to another ward. First he wanted to wait till someone returned his cheese and biscuits which had been cleared away with the rest of the tea things. The porter promised him a sandwich but he wanted to finish his mug of tea, the porter offered a fresh one on his new ward. The fussing continued but the gallant porter got him packed, sat and wheeled away still complaining about the bag the porter had put something in.

We were home by 1800.

I hope that if/when my past becomes my present I am as polite as the Englishman, that I would be as thoughtful and considerate as the Irishman, even if I'd never have his degree of competence when time is running out and that like the Welshman, I never completely lose my accent.