Blog almost over - not yet out

A rough few weeks, difficult at times and a week spent with IV antibiotic in hospital had passed with slight deterioration noted although thankfully little go preclude doing as much as one wished or could. Then .......

This Sunday morning dawns beautiful, warm calm, sunny and yet a fortnight ago about now, breakfast time, a doctor had been sat on my bedside anxiously calling for an ambulance. I had dumped blood. Rather a lot, a couple of significant internal bleeds, thus with practiced professional swiftness and ambulance parked on the drive  right outside the door, paramedics did what they do, in no time I was in hospital, in less I was in the first A&E bay reserved for the most serious of imports. Immediately on O2, cannulated and swiftly wheeled to a ward everything was a blur of shapes, sounds and trust in those around you.

Vaguely aware of being placed in award bay and less vaguely award of being unable to answer the myriad of questions from th endless flow of blue, red and green medics I just felt tired to a degree not generally felt. My first feeling was that my arms were freezing and from that point on a wild ride which seemed somewhat detached from me took place. Scaffolding was erected about me, cannulas, bags, injections, seen not felt. Indistinct people popping up all about me, doctors injecting, nurses rehabbing bags and a voice. Stay with me she said. Hang on to me. Squeeze my hand, stay with me, stay with us, keep on trying. Very gently but very imploring the voice seemed to go on and on.

Much later, almost dusk found me in a side ward with my nearest art near as she could be. She was allowed to stay all night if she wished. Our daughter phoned to say she had arrived home but it was too late to come in so after much hesitancy my visitor left. Shortly after leaving a nurse called Lesley came in with nurse stood in the shadow. This was a paliative care nurse, I was told as, as indeed I was told lots of other things but sleep overtook before the implications became apparent.

The next day saw drips changed, bloods replenished and a daughter sat by the bed for an hour or so talking good times, cars, family, daily goings on. Joy, bliss and I hope I made sense. She left and in what seemed no time her place had been taken by her mum and although I was aware i may not havd been too eloquent.

Shortly after her arrival a nurse whose badge said Aylene leaned over the bed. It was the voice. Hang on, stay with me, that voice. It was now we realised that touch and go had been exceeded. I had been in crash for 20/30 seconds. It was just as well we were all wearing face masks the voice said otherwise you nay have seen the panic! It was all very serious but it was Monday afternoon and apart from 100%O2, blood, saline, at al driping in I was still very much this side of eternity. What a truly, truly lovely nurse, as they all are.

Late that night I was wheeled to another ward and parked amid 10 others thus ushering in a sense of the ordinary, for which I was thankful. On this ward all that went in and out was measured and it was encouraging to see the reduction in frequency of blood units, of which there were 8 or 10.  Once the bloods had been stopped I was off to another ward where carefully controlled visitation was allowed. The care was fabulous but toward the end the Doctors had a long chat to the effect that if it happened again there would be no action that they could take that would be effective. My last trip to hospital had happened and I confess that news came as some relief. From now on the final chapter was being written.

Whilst in hospital the hospice care team had installed a high tech bed, O2 and various other devices at home including a care team visiting, thus on Friday afternoon when I was suddenly asked how soon I could be ready to go I was there! Couldn't stand unaided, couldn't walk without help but home was where I wanted to be. An ambulance equipped with O2 was summoned and I was taken home looked after better than royalty.

New Life

Thine be the glory, risen, conqu'ring Son:
endless is the vict'ry thou o’er death hast won;
angels in bright raiment rolled the stone away,
kept the folded grave-clothes where thy body lay.

Thine be the glory, risen, conqu'ring Son;
endless is the vict'ry thou o’er death hast won.

Lo! Jesus meets us, risen from the tomb;
lovingly he greets us, scatters fear and gloom;
let the church with gladness, hymns of triumph sing,
for her Lord now liveth, death hath lost its sting.

Thine be the glory, risen, conqu'ring Son;
endless is the vict'ry thou o’er death hast won.

No more we doubt thee, glorious Prince of life;
life is naught without thee: aid us in our strife;
make us more than conqu'rors, thro' thy deathless love:
bring us safe thro' Jordan to thy home above.

Thine be the glory, risen, conqu'ring Son;
endless is the vict'ry thou o’er death hast won

Edmond Louis Budry 1854-1932
Trans. Richard Birch Hoyle 1875-1939 

Missed

"...... there'll never be a day when he's not the first one you think of when you wake up or the last one you think about at night ......"

Mrs.Margaret Trevorrow, St.Ives, June 2018.

Margaret lost one of her sons, David some years earlier when he was about 40(?)

Thanks to all involved in the Hospice Movement wherever they are and especially at this time I pray for their protection. I thank them for the comfort they provide, the pain they alleviate and the dignity with which they surround you.

But tonight, I pray especially and give thanks for all at Ty Olwen Palliative Care Centre, Morriston, Swansea who made so much difference and for whom no amount of thanks will ever be sufficient.

How good is the God we adore!
Our faithful, unchangeable friend:
his love is as great as his pow'r
and knows neither measure nor end.

For Christ is the first and the last;
his Spirit will guide us safe home;
we'll praise him for all that is past
and trust him for all that's to come.

Joseph Hart 1712-1768

MasterChef

Only once have I watched a cooking programme in the company of my wife. It was Nigella making, building, constructing a Girdle Buster Pie. I was left in awe, everything I liked in one bowl stirred up and ready to devour. She knew my thoughts and the flat refusal to even consider making such a thing was tantamount to a unliateral declaration of intent. For then and forever. I may mention it now and again but all I get is the glare. How on earth does she know it would be too rich for me, after all she has no idea how rich I can cope with? She remains totally Girdle Buster Pie averse.

That remains the only TV cooking programme we have watched yet it seems that mid evening daily a pair of old blokes bawl and wear cheesy grins as poor unfortunates are harangued into drizzling this, reducing that and dirtying a plate with enough food to partially fill one a quarter of the size or less. Pointless, eh? Or is that something else she watches?

However, it matters not and although I'd still like a Girdle Buster Pie or part thereof, I forgive her anything.

This morning the aroma filled the house. The aroma that could only be one thing, one very specific thing. So specific that there's absolutely nothing else like it. The smell draws you like the sound of twin 40's and a large exhaust on a BDA Escort pulls you through a forest. Utterly irresistible.

How long?

Look.

That long?

If that's what it says.

But I'm starving.
No, you're not you're hungry.
I know what I am and I'm starving.

That's a minute less.

A glass of red is suggested sat in the sunshine outside the kitchen window where the all prevasive aroma makes the minutes seem like hours, waiting for the ping which takes forever.

Eventually it is heard, salivation starts and one begins to move the bulk toward the kitchen. They'll need another 10 minutes.

That sees the end of the red.


The next ping and my masterchef opens the oven to reveal the greatest of all culinary delights.

You can do what you like in a kitchen, you can dress the finest ingredients in whatever you choose, you can drizzle, reduce, thicken, stir, beat, shred, or whatver else you like but there is nothing, absolutely nothing at all as good as smelling these cook, lingering in anticipation as they are allowed to cool slightly before your plate presses slighly further into the table mat than it did as it receives a fitty pasty.

You can buy them in shops but they aren't fitty ones and never will be, even Annies down The Lizard as good as you can buy they may well be, Hamsons in Hayle aren't bad, Philps's will do at a push but fitty ones only come out of the oven in your kitchen when the whole house is filled with the odour of pure culinary delight.

These are perfect, this is a fitty pasty. It's just like my mum made them which is hardly surprising as my mum taught my wife how to make fitty pasties. She has carried on the tradition as only an expert MasterChef can.

It's a shame that such glorious sculpture only lasts mere seconds but without a fitty pasty to look forward to what has a kitchen to offer?

Indeed it is only the passage of time, the expanse of girth and probably global warming that has stopped fitty pasties being taken for granted every Saturday lunchtime and Wednesday evenings in the winter.

The current crop may not quite overlap the plate by 2" at each end but they're not far off and I'd never complain, nor has anyone else who's had one, at least, not to my knowlege.

There is absolutely nothing like a fitty pasty. Nothing at all. A bit of mum's hevvacake? P'raps. It doesn't even matter that it's a Monday, not usually a pasty day but who cares?

Maybe a Girdle Buster Pie for afters would be nice but I'm too afraid to ask as it may disappoint!

MasterChef on telly have nothing on the real MasterChef who's currently tending cabbages .......

Family Tears Home

Standards

I have some. Not many but a few. One of which is that shorts are de rigueur for the duration of BST or add an hour to the tide times time. Summer time has arrived even if the temperature leaves something to be desired.

Today is another one, no different really from its predecessor, the sun is shining and we were able to attend virtual church this morning and very good it was, too.

Now, having ventured outside and hurried back the coffee is cooling at room temperature, the music is flowing at quite adequate bitrates, the lady of the house is in communicado with many both verbally and textually. No doubt extending the time after which her conscience will allow her to ignore the Wii Fit Plus no longer.

I fear the guilt from lack of exercise is passing me by. In the early hours I noted that Tidal were offering 120days for £4. Too good to be true was my initial thought but leaving the page on this tablet my financier agreed to the sum of £4 being risked, after all it's usually £20/month and, in my opinion never worth it.

I now have zillions of albums hiding under my right index finger and in the last hour or three I've selected such new and upcoming artists as Led Zeppelin, In through the out door, the record is next door, Yes, Close to the edge, the album being an arms length away and In the court of the crimson king, the album being somewhere hereabouts. I think they're pretty good and I'd expect them to prosper. Who knows one day they may even become classics. Neil Young next, probably, he's not bad either or so I'm told. There's a stack of his albums next door, too. The cover of Harvest is pretty worn but the vinyl is perfect. I expect there will be a migration to explore some crowd called U2 and another bunch called Pink Floyd ........

All in all not bad when you are shielded for the next 11 weeks. I could explore a whole world of music of which I am totally unfamiliar or I could just play what I always play. 60 years ago my dad told me such as these would never last. I was allowed a Beatles mug and plate but never bought a record of theirs at the time. The Stones got in the way and then James Marshall Hendrix, Pink Floyd, Alice Cooper and Bob Dylan. The rest is history. Wonderful history.

Now I can listen to a world of music and I end up listening to the familiar. Love it!

New music, it's all new when your memory becomes as porous as mine has. More like meeting old friends, predictable, comforting, uplifting, satisfying. I guess that when I first heard these and their cohorts it was new music. Anyway, I've just unplugged the HDD for 120 days or whenever.

However, a slave to standards I am not. It's a lot colder than it ought to be but having put the shorts on its only right to take appropriate precautions against the chill.

It's just as well that I've got Tidal streaming in here as well, not the quality as the front room would provide but much cosier. It's only taken me an age no doubt a teenager would have done it in seconds.

Besides which we've just had another phone call from one offering to go shopping for us, our neighbours put a couple of bunches of flowers and box of chocolate on the wall and txtd the one for whom they are meant and an email has dropped in the inbox from a good friend.

Surrounded by goodness, none taken for granted, none deserved but we are thankful for all.

It's all good and we are conscious of being looked after as only an all powerful, all knowing God can look after you. Which reminds me of

Come, Thou fount of every blessing,

Tune my heart to sing Thy grace;

Streams of mercy, never ceasing,

Call for songs of loudest praise.

Teach me some melodious sonnet,

Sung by flaming tongues above.

Praise the mount! I’m fixed upon it,

Mount of Thy redeeming love.

Sorrowing I shall be in spirit,

Till released from flesh and sin,

Yet from what I do inherit,

Here Thy praises I’ll begin;

Here I raise my Ebenezer;

Here by Thy great help I’ve come;

And I hope, by Thy good pleasure,

Safely to arrive at home.

Jesus sought me when a stranger,

Wandering from the fold of God;

He, to rescue me from danger,

Interposed His precious blood;

How His kindness yet pursues me

Mortal tongue can never tell,

Clothed in flesh, till death shall loose me

I cannot proclaim it well.

O to grace how great a debtor

Daily I’m constrained to be!

Let Thy goodness, like a fetter,

Bind my wandering heart to Thee.

Prone to wander, Lord, I feel it,

Prone to leave the God I love;

Here’s my heart, O take and seal it,

Seal it for Thy courts above.

O that day when freed from sinning,

I shall see Thy lovely face;

Clothed then in blood washed linen

How I’ll sing Thy sovereign grace;

Come, my Lord, no longer tarry,

Take my ransomed soul away;

Send Thine angels now to carry

Me to realms of endless day.

Robert Robinson 1735 -1790

Coronavirus : other viruses are available.

Last Thursday wasn't good, rotteness and lethargy were in the ascendent but life goes on, at least in NZ. Whilst explaining to she who wishes to provide all I need constantly in an torrential stream of questions that all I really wanted was some good news. Within an hour it came. An email from Terry, he of NZ residence who had just had his post chemo CT scan which showed him to be all clear. Joy of joys. It was overwhelming really. I couldn't have felt more chuffed, alas my emailing skill set had become slightly beyond reach so all he got was the shortest of notes but the best message I could manage.

In the early hours I was awakened by the shake, rattle and slurp of a very much below par me. I had no idea what was going on but I was uncontrolably and violently shaking from head to toe, rattling teeth, also uncontrollable and evident slurping, it could have been rolling but was a result of so much sweat that slurping is a more apt description. I'm not sure whether she should have moored me up or put a lifejacket on but it wasn't nice.

My holder of the hand became the holder of the phone. Such is her experience that she knew exactly what was going on. Phone calls made starting at 0330, returned, temperature taken and recorded, paracetamol administered even though not due, windows opened,  or closed, advice taken and acted upon. Doctors phoned, calls returned, by 1300 a van load of drugs delivered to the door, left, watched and signed for by the driver once carried in by my local drug administrator.

All of this was related to me after two or three days, not too sure but I am sure that it was about the third day when I came to and asked what the horrible stink was. It wasn't her and there's only us. It was awful. Not just bad but terrible, unbearable, unbelievable but unendurable, too. After much heaving, sighing, stretching and drug taking I eventually got into a prone position from which I expected to make the shower. It was not easy but she had elicited the offer of help from her friend, still a community nurse who may have seen me at my worst but she'd never smelt me like I was. The threat made the shower urgently indispensible.

For those who know fishing, proper fishing that is, you will know about ray slime and deckwash hoses. It was that sort of shower. It was wonderful. Being clean and totally exhausted but so worth it. Whilst abluting the being, clothing, anything within two metres of where I'd lain was removed, washed, purified, cleansed and aired. I even went downstairs for a short sojourn before returning from whence I came.

It seems I have "a" lurg, not "the" lurg. Antibiotics are now added to the rather larger egg cup of convenience, they would not have fitted in the smaller one. The pills are huge. Like the biggest I have, breaa geet monsters they are. They may not do the lurg much good, and I'm glad of that but they don't do me much good either.

They invoke a disconnect on a pretty totalitarian scale. I can see bits of me moving but the idea of my being in control of the movement is somewhat fanciful. Constantly being asked what I want .... squash ....? Yes, please. Eat? No thanks. Even when the smell of what's being cooked invades the malodourous air of this bedroom one is roused to believe that venturing down would be advantageous. The act maybe, the event somewhat less so.

Eating has become an effort too far. One morning I was woken to scrambled egg and fried bacon. Fried bacon! Fried bacon, is there anything as good? Grilled may be less messy, bunged in the oven may be easier but only fried tasted like bacon should. Only fried makes the mess that bacon can. It was lovely. I couldn't say when it was but I did realise that she must have been desperate for me to eat something. I wonder if the request for fried bacon will be met next time . . . 

One upside is that intrusive pain has been somewhat muted although the whole drugs regime has been rescheduled, night time Oramorph reinforcements have been noticeably absent and paracetamol every six hours to the minute regardless of state of consciousness is a tribute to that most remarkable drug and the most remarkable administrator. All of which makes the last week a bit of a blur, disconcerting and trying to unravel the events is impossible but for the accurate record keeping of one to whom such things come naturally.

It is quite amazing how much effort is required lying down interrogating your memory, trying to affix days to events, or vice versa, albeit not exactly exciting events, details of which would make most uninteresting reading but markers nonetheless. Mostly extremely unpleasant reading, details of which would repulse anyone not a medical professional with some responsibility to this sad case.

Indeed, conversation is laboured either personal or telephonic. It's a twofold problem, the first being one of wind. I have lots, unfortunately, mostly it comes from the wrong place, is uncontrolled, unpredicatble and resembles random morse. Even though I become somewhat impervious to it all the supplier of all good things is ready with a syringe of peppermint water when it's getting out of hand.  From the other end it is laboured, prone to failing, fading to barely a whisper and being very inconsistent as well as hard work. It's just not worth the bother but I try until I give up.

The other aspect of this problem is not unknown nor unprecedented but it has yet to become normal. It is that peculiar sensation of beginning a conversation and being unable to continue at anything like normal speed. I can see the words clearly in my head, actually really see them like the old Windows time screensaver bouncing around but I can't order them or summon them up at will. It's like fishing, again. I can see the quarry but I can't catch the prey. Writing is so much easier even though just typing this out is taking so long but most of the time is spent herding words. Eventually enough are coralled to get them out in order and the next lot bounce around waiting their turn but they are not patient waiters.

Then, as at this moment, the words lose their bounce, slowly fade, the mind goes blank, stopping gives pause for spelling, punctuation and grammar checks but even that gets harder and sometimes, as you must notice I just give that up, too.

Life does go on. A phone call from a mate in some distress just after being told his sister was critical in ICU up north, mid 60s. The next day a phone call from one whose father died last month to tell us his wife's dad died earlier that morning 90ish, ill for quite a while and the day after the ailing sister was no longer critical. It's what happens, we all die only the timing and causes vary.

Every day there are still cancers to be dealt with, heart attacks, strokes, traumatic events and so on. The miracle is that the NHS copes at all let alone as magnificently as it does, it still treats all it can even the Muppets who don't do as they're told, the ones who fight over toilet paper, the ones who fill trolleys with so much that they can't get it all in their cars and have to wait in their parking bay for a return trip.

But today, Thursday, the sun is shining, the clarity out of the window has invaded the mind. It feels like a degree of life has returned. I just had a read, Philip Yancey amazing blog, but he's a proper writer who just communicates the most profound ideas so simply that when I struggle to read anything a time with him always rewards. I'm told that there are a load of cards and letters awaiting my consideration, equally I've been told that they are worth reading as are the emails in my inbox.

Where would one be without the other? My other has once again endured a far worse week than I. I pray that as we pass through this last full day of antibiotics she may be every bit and maybe more relieved than I. Anything else worth knowing happened this week? Probably not!

Grace remains sufficient for the day whether we are aware of it or comatose. Grace and peace, invaluable and priceless.

Addendum. 1230. The doctor phoned as he said he would. I am one of the NHS's worst nightmares, so much so that I am not to engage in face to face meetings with anyone for 12 weeks. I'm to stay indoors. My wife is also thus constrained. The implications are only just being thought through. I have learned to be content with whatever I have was said by St.Paul. I'd say I believe it, now would seem to be the time to practice what I would not hesitate to preach. Paul could only manage with the grace of God extended to him daily. We are no different, and he was in a Roman prison not a nice house with garden, a shed, toys and for me the best company one could have.

Faith untested would be pretty worthless, would it not? Fortunately, previous testing has been hard, almost unbearable but He who took us through them will take us through the tests that lie ahead. So, life carries on but it doesn't get any easier it seems.

The search of happiness

Thursday began well. Sensible time, no raging pain, a gentle coming to and coffee followed by rice krispies, more coffee and a nap. Thus the morn passed making way for a generous by current standards, dollop of lasagne. Followed by seconds. Unheard of in recent times but welcome. Maybe it was the fact that shadows made patterns in the garden, maybe it looked more springlike than anything seen so far this year. It was just a nice day.

Once the post lunch nap was done the thought of a Dartmoor drive appealed, a visit long overdue to see Dad. A phone call ended abruptly, as it would when words like panic, escaped, wandered off, I'll phone back were the ones left ringing in the ears.

An hour and a half, two? However long once comms were restored calm had descended and I suggested that we'd have visited but it was a bit late, now. No, come, the whole crowd's coming later. Normally I wouldn't have considered it so far from my comfort time zone but today had been a good one. We couldn't stay long as my cataract recovering better half was not happy about having to drive anywhere no matter how necessary.

A drive around the north and western edges of the moor is always a joy enhanced with the roof down but cataract recovery needs a draught and dust free environment so the roof stayed up. It was still a joy as it's almost Lexus silent and by far quicker and more comfy. Arriving, parking, slowly and carefully walking into the kitchen and coffee. Nice. Haven't visited my brother for ages. Remembering that I was there to visit dad too, I dutifully wandered into the front room. Alright? I asked. Where you from? I told him. He said he knew someone who lived there, I was relieved at that.

My brother has a Linn with a Naim and now speakers that do them justice so he put on Bob Marley, not an artist I'd choose to while away hours with but the quality of the musicianship shone through, the mastery of the recording engineers art and the cohesion of the soundstage was magnificent. Decent sound costs. Really great sound costs lots.

The irony of being sat in his front room with my dad listening to Bob Marley was not lost on me, a man who once bought me a copy of Val Doonican's greatest hits on that well known mfp label from Woolworths for Christmas when I bought Led Zeppelin. I still have both. One comes readily to hand. I can still remember Patrick McGinty, an Irishman of note, fell into a fortune and bought himself goat, says he lots of goats milk I'm sure to have me fill but when he got the nanny home he found it was a bill and so on. Doesn't quite have the ring of Been dazed and confused for so long it's not true, wanted a woman never bargained for you. Val Doonican, Robert Plant, I bet you won't read any blogs with those names in the same sentence or even the same paragraph, eh? Happier days.

Dad's tea things cleared away and someone shouted come and get it. I tried and immediately remembered that getting up from a settee is best done slowly but Bob had just shot the sheriff, swore it was in self defence and it was the deputy anyway so the moment waiting for the body to join the head was entertaining.

My brothers do's are legendary. We sit around a huge bowl centrally placed. This bowl begins with a mountain of chips rising above all else. Everyone dives in but the mountain remains constant. I don't think we ever run out of chips we just get so tired lifting them we can't raise the energy. Not just chips. Platters of breads, sliced, rolls, I don't know what else, but seeing as I can't do either any more I just watch. His other frying pan relentlessly fries eggs, beautifully, real farm ones. I can do those and then there's the ham, delicately hacked into manageable chunks and slices, artistically arranged on a platter for seconds. I can do ham too. I just can't do as much of either as I once could. I didn't have to take pills with every other mouth full either. Happier days.

I sit and watch, my brother frying, filling bowls and sandwiches, constantly switching between frying pan, chopping board and deep fat fryer, his wife busily ensuring that no one lacks anything, water, wine, coffee, whatever needs filling she's there.

Opposite me my niece what's appraising her industrially busy husband of all that transpires, or I assume that's what's happening, in between chip butties with mayo, next to her my sister asks if I've seen this photo or that one at which point an iPhone, worn as a ring is thrust to within a few millimetres of my eyes which if I had my glasses on may have been worthwhile but even if I had them I wouldn't have time to look at the photo, merely seeing it would be a struggle for one whose brain has slowed so much, next to me my brother in law recites tweets with short sharp generally disparaging comments, I keep wanting to ask who wrote that, when, to whom, why, what was next, what preceeded it and so on, context is everything but irelevant in tweets it seems. Besides there's photos of a bruised arm and an x-ray of his recently dislocated shoulder to see in between chip butties with added egg. To my left a bloodshot left eye silently asks if I've had enough, is it time to make a move, have I had this pill or that, do I need this potion yet and so on. She, too is failing to lower the chip mountain despite a degree of vigour.

I sit. I watch. I listen. I look. I enjoy. Perfect comfort, perfectly at ease, perfect in our understanding of one another, banter unchanged regardless of the technology. Happy days.

I take notice when my sister wheezes, enough, no more chips, I'm stuffed. She's not, of course, the frying may cease but the mountain remains. Over the next few minutes tired hands let chips fall onto buttered bread as experts all demonstrate the effortless construction of chip butties with an infinite variety of additions, tired hands manage chips directly to the mouth but however it is done the chip mountain gradually diminishes until finally there is the undignified scrabble for the crunchy crispy slivers left and silently even those are dispatched.

Much leaning back, breath catching before the shrapnel of the feeding processes are levered into the dishwasher and then puddings are dragged out. A monster slab of hot brownie and a large dish of pineapple upside down pudding are unwrapped. My niece notices the missing pineapple ring and has the nerve to accuse me of being responsible. Moi? As if. My sister looks up from her phone j'accuse written large in her expression. I feel happy that I didn't let them down. It seemed the right thing to do. It was nice and as long as my chunk did not include the missing ring I was happy. Custard almost floated it but there was just enough sponge to accept a dollop of cream without it sliding into yellow obscurity. Lovely. I tried a lump of brownie, too but a bloodshot eye raised questions, easily ignored. It was rich. Happy days.

Bloated, the withdrawal to the front room saw dad glance up, I hope he knew us all but vagueness overrides all else I think. I had to sit on a kitchen chair opposite him and he seemed content, at peace. To his right an absent husband was what's appraised of the latest move, next to her photos were looked at, fleetingly displayed and ignored by glasses less eyes. Next to me a bloodshot eye told me it was getting near dark and should we make a move? No. To my right tweets continued to be offered as worthy of consideration. My brother sitting next to dad thought he could squeeze in another slab of brownie and his ever attentive wife continued to fill glasses, beakers and mugs. Bloated. Happy.

The bloodshot eye asked the question, my mind wondered how long it had been since I'd driven in the dark and the tiredness of effort made itself felt. I was so happy to feel that as I'm so used to fatigue that mere tiredness is a great feeling. Tired, content, happy, it was time to go. Getting in the car I looked to turn the lights on but was a bit flummoxed. They are on, they come on automatically, you can't turn them off. Oh, yes, I recall that bit of the manual. What a silly idea. The inside looked strange, beautifully lit but we are unaccustomed to seeing it thus. Quite smart actually a very nice place to be.

Driving off gently down the hill and over the bridge back into the foreign land we call home the car glides in as close to silence as you can get. The rain spots the screen and letting them build up I was pleased to be able to select a finger to gently tap the stalk and the wipers silently swept the water to the a pillar and then to the screen scuttle. Is there anything as pointless as automatic rain sensing wipers? I think not, except automatic lights. There's something sadly pleasant about judging the density of rain drops needed to ensure that the wipers blades do their task with silent efficiency. Things like that make me happy, too. Not as happy as being in a car that glides along minor roads West of Dartmoor with effortless ease, allows such delicate control and permits such precise placement that you can start to think that you are a good driver. I'm not, the car is. You are left wondering quite how the last 30 miles were covered so soon but such is the reality of driving a car that far exceeds the ability of the driver. Were it not dark I'm sure a bloodshot eye would have noticed a satisfied grin. Dual carriageway dispensed with in silent efficiency, smooth comfort and awesome confidence inducing happiness home arrived sooner than expected.

A beer, bed and in the pre dawn gloom as I reached for the syringe I came up close to the photo of Paul and his sister as I do every day about this time. Paul smiling, his sister laughing. For the first time I can remember I was able to smile back, no tremors, no moist eyes, just overwhelming gratitude to family, for family and especially today as it's Paul's son's fourth birthday.

The last few years have seen happiness become a stranger, sometimes even feeling guilty for considering happiness something to be searched out but in the last few hours happiness has found me. Family, a bit of crant, some aspects of life as it once was and still is, in all this happiness searched me out and with the able assistance of family and the help of friends, it's found me.

Happy days. Indeed.

Fake mantras, true friendship

No plans, no expectations has been a mantra of mine for a while now. Not really a mantra in that it isn't a religious oft repeated saying but it does colour the thinking in that it recognises that the place where I am is as good a place as it can be but it would be unwise to make plans and even moreso to confidently expect their positive outcome. All our friends are aware so if we say yes and don't it's OK, our intentions do not always match our desired outcome.

However, it doesn't stop me from having a go. Not often and only when considered extremely important accepting that I may fail to fulfil and fall far short of what I'd like. This last Friday the delight of my eyes had to have hers looked at and a cataract removed. For weeks I've been stating that I can take her and collect her. Initial scepticism saw me told that she'd go by bus and if I was up to it she'd call for collection.

Then word got out. One of her glorious garden centre coffee companions was going to collect and deliver at both ends of the procedure. She was not the only one offering her services but she is one you don't argue with. She is to music what Rembrandt is to light. Both know how they want the finished article presented. Not because they're better than anyone else, but they are, nor that they have more talent, although they do but because the depth in their art lies in the fact that they can see the finished painting before the first brush stroke and hear the final performance way before it takes place. This is what separates the merely good from the truly great. Their dedication to producing a work of art is what drives them and recognising that is why wise people keep out of the way and let them take you somewhere you otherwise couldn't go. They carry an authority gently yet fragility is acknowledged but not given in to. Rare character seldom seen quietly recognised humbly enjoyed.

I reluctantly, but wisely acceded to my wife's wishes to be transported by someone able, reliable and infinitely better company as well. She is a remarkable lady, one from whom I have learned so much. On one occasion she rang the doorbell just to give me a hug. No coffee, no tea, just a hug. Another occasion saw her at our door with a box of steak, really good steak, all the niceities and a bottle of red as we had just come back from Paul's at what was a very difficult time. She, too has suffered terrible family tragedy and bereavement but there she was providing, helping. Sympathizing, empathising, driven by experience but sadly reminded of it too no doubt. I remember being in awe of that lady, and still am.

For the life of me I couldn't really work out why she did so much for us. What had we ever done to merit such love and kindness? Being a bit thick it took a while but you realise that such actions have nothing to do with our goodness, merit or anything to do with us. They are a product of a person who is living out goodness, kindness and constantly giving of themselves. It is because they are so good that we are blessed through them, it is not because we deserve it, it is because it is the natural out working of a person steeped in kindness. A person whose default is to give, unconditionally and wholly but it is given, never forced, never insisted upon just gently offered, completely as a perfectly thought through whole solution.

That artistic vision once again permeates everything. The end is envisioned before most of us have even considered the beginning. The whole event was sorted, collection, delivery, collection delivery and her life so arranged as to ensure that our lives are made more comfortable, more secure, more relaxed and just better. No thought of her own needs to rearrange whatever plans may have been laid but all put in subjection to our wellbeing. But there's far more to it than that, there's the total faith that we have in her, she has said, she will do. It will be done we can rest assured. If there's any better living example of how Christianity is shown in daily life I don't know of it. Total security because of the goodness of someone else prepared to make sacrifices for someone else. Just to see it is wonderful, to experience it a privilege.

That's what friends are, people who give not because they must but because they can.  People who always and ever go that yard further than they need, who give wholeheartedly and look strangely at you when your jaw drops (again) and shake their heads when thanked. Such people display the goodness of God without even knowing it. We are so fortunate to know so many, and, no I'm not worthy, nor is it deserved and that is why I'm so glad that so few are like me and so many like her.

Thus, it was my only duty to stay well enough to be able to make tea, light fire, drip drops and do whatever else was required by the casualty upon her return. I even got that so wrong.

Early night on Thursday, then. Unfortunately I was not awake for her departure, the phone rang judiciously placed alongside my ear at 1000 to tell me to take my pills and that I'd been up in the night. Nor was I awake for her return. I became aware of noises below so assuming I ought to be on coffee duty I descended the stairs at about 1530. Half way down I knew it wasn't my best move but I wobbled to the kitchen anyway and offered coffee. Alas, intentions and ability met in opposition and I was sent back to bed. Eventually an hour or so later I sallied forth for another go. It must have been OK as I was entrusted with the eye drops. Tea appeared but by 1930 I was back and comatose where I remained, I think, until 0600 ish this morning.

Plans planned, expectations diminished but even they were thwarted. All in all on the very day when I thought I could be of some use, when I thought I could in some insignificant way pay back a tiny bit it was not to be.

Thinking about it was not a happy time until it dawned on a thicket like me that even when I'm here I'm not a lot if good and she is still looked after so well, when I'm not here she will be still looked after. Friends will see to that as they respond to show God's goodness to others every day of their lives.

Thus on a day of such great significance I was rendered totally useless but even in that there was such a depth of encouragement that my mind is still swimming in the goodness of friends, the over ruling of my plans by one who knows infinitely better, indeed, the only one who can make plans sure in their execution.

As the old hymn asks, how great is the God we adore? Very.

Scrambled eggs, head, mind

Questions, questions, questions, so many questions. Yesterday the doctors secretary phoned, questions . . . . . Whoa, hang on here's one who can answer I said handing the phone to one far better than I. Fortunately she's usually on hand but when she isn't I really struggle. It's not that I can't answer it's that I can't answer in a timeframe expected by a busy person with umpteen calls made and umpteen to make. Although they don't put any pressure on you I'm painfully aware that I take ages and then I think and need to answer again.

Then there's the response, instructions. What to do with them, where to write them, what was that, again, sorry. I'm pretty rubbish at most things but questions are my nemesis. After a very few I just give up nowadays as I can't cope and my brain gets scrambled, especially when I start to answer and no sooner started than words in the head fail to make it as far as the lips. I am so fortunate that my better half is really my better half and then some.

I'm good at facts and can cope with poo, wee and sick questions but then they ask about pain and that's it. I can explain or indicate where but degree of? On a scale of 1-10,  yeah, what? 1 is just noticeable, not pain, then and 10 is as bad as.  . . . what? Often they will say as bad as you've experienced.

I was a 6 or 7 yr old when I got my right index finger stuck in a power mangle as I tried to flatten my sister's monkey. My hand stopped, the mangle didn't. Nana heard, rushed to the scene, stopped the mangle, got my finger out, folded it into my hand and got someone to drive us to hospital. Loads of blood, a dozen or more stitches. Now that hurt, but Nana was there so it wasn't a big deal.

As a mid teen I put a Mustad 17 1/2 spade end hook into my palm. It wasn't done on purpose. I was on my own whiffing so I had a pound full of mackerel aboard and a whiffing line in me. Once I'd calmed down and cut the glove off with a gutting knife I shoved the hook through to expose the barb. That hurt. Boy, did that hurt. The pliers in the aft locker were as rusty as every other tool in the aft locker. I'd intended to cut off the barb and pull the hook back out. Alas, with the barb in place I had to cut off the whipped horsal and pull the spade end through. That hurt. That really hurt. A lot. Bled a bit but with a whole ocean to put your hand in it eased quite soon.

Nope, I suppose my 10 would have to be a Boxing Day tooth extraction, solo using a pair of long nosed pliers. I'd cracked the tooth on Christmas Day, by Boxing Day it was rammed with paracetamol but my sister had a party to which everyone went. Except me. By early afternoon I'd had enough. The tooth had to go and go it did, albeit in pieces. I collected them in an eggcup, bled profusely and chewed a wad of cotton wool and paracetamol. By the time the partygoers returned I was comfortably numb. A few days later the dentist complimented me on my thoroughness and described my actions with words not normally heard in a dentist's chair. I was so relieved that I cast the tooth in pewter as a keepsake, if a photo appears here you'll know I found it. 

Now when asked about the degree of pain I have my references but no one asking has the same references, do they? So to answer with worse than mangling your finger but without Nana on hand, not as bad as pulling a hook through your hand or as bad as pulling your own tooth with a long nosed pliers? It only makes sense to me and as for numbers, forget it, that's why I married a mathematician.

Then they ask, how are you? It's far better than being asked how are you in yourself? That leaves me perplexed. What on earth does it mean? Have I to imagine how I would be if I was someone else? Can I answer wishing I was someone else? In myself? Silly question. Speaking as me I'm fine. Except I'm probably not.

Once the place and degree of pain is noted the rest is in the mind, is it not? The question is inextricably entwined with my mental state at that moment. How do you answer that one, and for how long will the answer remain valid?

Sometimes you feel good, the way ahead obvious if not completely straightforward. Clear minded, the route lies before me, well defined but with far too many options. Too many choices to be made, not all insignificant, not all inconsequential, not all logical, rational or tidy. At least I'm thankful that the path before me is clear, lit enough to avoid trip hazards, bright enough to ensure that a spot to catch your breath is not too far away before endeavouring to complete the course or get as far along as you can.

Other times you don't feel at your best, apprehensive  about what presents itself before you, unsure, a bit wobbly. That's  when you look and it's all a bit opaque. These are the days which are just such a struggle to get through. You can see enough to know there's something there, something going on, something to get involved with. The effort, though is sometimes just too much to make bothering worthwhile. Sometimes you know you should but you don't and sometimes you know you shouldn't but you do. I hate these scenarios. Again, too many choices. Too many decisions. Too easy to take the easiest option, too tempting to just give up, too important to ignore, too much time to ponder the wisdom of your action by which time another set of choices make themselves apparent. You can hope the need for input goes away but it never does, it just adds complexity to a mind that's already stretched and searching for simplicity. In the opaque world nothing is as it seems, nothing brings comfort, nothing dampens enthusiasm as quickly, nothing drains your energy as swiftly, nothing requires more effort for less reward. But it does demand a response. It is unfortunately impossible to wholly ignore.

The trouble with opacity is immediate, do I or don't I and what follows?  I just can't cope with the opaque. Clarity is good and so is blank.

These are the bleugh days, the leave me alone days, the really can't be bothered days, the days when you just feel plain rotten. The days when any effort is too much. When you take refuge in the blankness that envelops you. Your mind is blank, in many ways it is like a comfort blanket. It is darkness with a degree of solidity. Impermeable. Impervious. Nothing. No idea. No choices, no decisions, no angst, no repercussions, no debate. Just blank. Calm. It may not be the best but it is an easy option. The blank mind is best left alone. Let it remain blank. Days can pass in this way. Last Friday, most of Sunday and Monday for example.

You never know what a day will be like till you get there, once there you don't know how long it'll last but that's all OK because we are promised grace for today regardless of what sort of day it is. Which is just as well because there is always the thought that one state can become another in an instant and rarely does it go from blank to clear but from clear there's only one way to go and often it does. Sometimes it even misses the interim state.

How do I feel? How can I answer in a way that anyone can understand? What does it matter, really? My friend Terry in NZ only ever asks, are you still vertical mostly and with a pulse? To which the answer is not mostly and yes.

Contemplating calendars

A year or three ago our calendar would be oft reflected upon, longingly gazed at, impatiently glared at and resignedly sighed at. In particular days alongside which were written such things as BRS1415ALC, BHM0610IBZ or PH 1945 Armorique Roscoff, Pont Aven, PH 1345 Santander that one only on a Sunday. Such events were legion, anticipated with increasing excitement, even involving planning and packing for one of us.

For a year or two it became the repository for hospital appointments around which everything else had to fit. Trips became noticeably absent not because they didn't happen, although flying and ferrying ceased, but because they were always a last minute event, taken as opportunity arose.  But the calendar remains as it always has, a site for reminding us of what may lie ahead. In that it remains a source of inspiration, delight and eager anticipation.

We are so fortunate in life to have been the endless recipients of the company of the good and the great. I don't believe in coincidence, luck, chance or fortune nor do I believe that any experience is wasted. I do believe in what used to be called Divine Providence and it has always been that we have been exceptionally well catered for. As I've often said, gratitude just doesn't do it justice but then, what does?

From people long passed like Peggy who would look slightly sideways at me when I was speaking and with hardly a movement, and only ever once with words would appraise me of exactly how it was going. I have never forgotten those words, either. Then there was Trevor. One of life's gifts is to have known him. Always encouraging, never blindly so, always building, always wise beyond measure. Never more so than at one of life's lowest ebbs when, with his wife a life was put into context, put back together again with a gentle godliness that you don't come across very often. Just the once in my case. And then within a week or two he was taken to heaven. He was kept going long enough, just long enough to be there when I needed him. No coincidence. Not a chance of that. Another example of divine providence working out every day.

It carries on and will continue to do so. Nearly every day we are privileged to have someone visit, frequently multiples of someones. There are those who visit almost daily, local, usually retired who just pop in and, I hope, enjoy the coffee or tea. The conversation flows with ease, the gaps are comfortable and if they see me on a bad day there's tomorrow, or there has been thus far.

Then there's the occasional visitor, not always local as in on your doorstep local and often still working. It is so easy to become embarrassingly unaware of the world of work. People who are still in a rush, people who are still busy and who are aware of so much going on. It is wonderful to be visited by these as you are taken from the now familiar to what was once our experience, too. The excited rush to inform, reaquaint, reappraise, reminisce is such a joy.

There is so much going on that once you are stood back from the immediacy of life it is too easy to think that it is the same for everyone. Especially when you reconsider how real the stresses and anxieties are for those still in the crush of the daily grind. Such visitors are a very precious blessing and one is so thankful to them for taking the time from such busyness to spend it with an old bloke who isn't what he once was. Fortunately I can still make coffee and my nearest and dearest is still far more interesting than me so she is well able to add so much more to any visit than mere coffee.

Then there are those whose names go on the calendar. Those who travel some hundreds of miles just to visit us. Names that mean so much, names that once on the calendar give a date meaning. A date looked forward to like holidays once were, only more so. You can buy a holiday but you can't buy a visit from a friend.  You can't force anyone to come through the front door or the back. I am in awe that anyone would drive for hours and hours just to visit us. It could be the pasty, the roast lamb or the lasagne, indeed I'd have travelled a while to visit me last weekend had I known that the red was so special, but I didn't and it was. That's the trouble knowing nothing about red, bar the colour the first sip was a wow moment. So wow that the daughter in Amsterdam this weekend had to be txtd to find out why it was so wow. Mt.Etna has a great deal to do with it as has the fact that you have to go there to get it.

That kind of visceral experience of wow is how I get whenever anyone drives so far to spend time with us. I do wish we had a reserve of Mt.Etna red to offer everyone but we haven't so I'm just thankful that they take us as we are, even if I'm rubbish the cooking will be great, the red not so special in future.

It's always telling, too, that invariably when friends phone phrases like, if you don't mind, if it's no trouble, if we won't be in the way, we won't stay long and (looking at you Rob) I can't see why anyone would want to see me  . . . . They do, we do. You don't measure visits, you don't quantify them, they lift you up, you look forward to them with immense anticipation and you remember them with overwhelming gratitude and great joy but most of all you give thanks to the God of the bible, the Divine Provider for His unbridled and umerited providence.

This is divine providence, friends from miles away or just around the corner. People prepared to give up their time to share their lives with others. Even us. There are no special moments in life, just special people you share moments with.

 Our calendar is oft reflected upon, longingly gazed at, impatiently glared at and resignedly sighed at. In particular days alongside which are written the names of those who mean so much.

A thought, far worse than cancer

Helen came today, at 0930! Early turn, or that's what it felt like having had Oramorph at about 0500 and coffee an hour later. The usual how are you was met by the usual I'm fine. No you're not, you are pale, struggling to breathe, whats your poo like and how are you peeing, what about sick ..... all the normal stuff.

My wife answered on my behalf, well mostly. She had some new morph or another, not as long lasting, not as foul tasting but should help with breathing, we'll try some now. It did help with breathing but I was being wiped out slowly. After she'd left I returned to bed and crashed till 1130.

I'm getting a double dose of the night one, something else that'll be in tomorrow and a nurse will come to do bloods.  Too much risk to go to the surgery but I didn't mention that I want to try to get to see dad in hospital tomorrow. There seems no end to the lengths of goodness they will go. I feel overwhelmed with care if not energy.

At 1130 I came to, felt up to a shower, donned regulation funeral wear and went to the crem. A friend who made the most wonderful sausage rolls, scotch eggs and Bakewell buns and you get the picture. She was a year older than me.

Parked in a blue badge slot I felt no guilt so that's progress and many friendships and acquaintances rekindled. Mostly thoughts kept me company, though. What music will i have? Too much choice. What would I want said, nothing. Who to say it? Doesn't matter. Seems its sorted anyway! It's not about me it's about those left behind.

These thoughts concluded my morning, they did not start it. A few weeks ago I phoned a friend who's coped with depression for years, bi polar I believe. Last week a friend came through the front door looking awful, grey, lifeless ........ stress, anxiety? On Sunday afternoon we were informed of an acquaintance, last conversed with almost a decade ago but you just pick up where you last left off, don't you? There will be no opportunity to pick up the conversation in future as he took his life at the weekend.

I'm being looked after like I don't deserve. Blood tests I've had hundreds, scans I've lost count. With cancer there's spots they can find, monitor, measure, muse over and in some cases treat. The data from a blood test is unbelievable. My C19(?) numbers were monitored weekly then fortnightly for years it seemed. Meaningless apart from slowly increasing, still slow growth and eventually no point measuring any more.

When the problem is in the mind how do you find it? You can't scan for it, a blood test won't show it, asking about it depends on whether the patient suffering this disease is prepared to engage with the questioner, open up to the professionals in this area.

But as we all know it is so easy to hide what's going on in your head, that's the nature of the disease. And it is a disease. A disgusting disease, easily hidden, covered, ignored. A terrible disease, much worse than cancer, I think. The inevitability of my demise seems pretty set, barring miraculous healing which I don't discount as with God anything is possible but I'm not counting on it. A word that morphs into a thought, becomes a desire too great to ignore, out of control and finally explodes to the point at which the diseased mind decides that the only way out is perceived to be to take your own life.

In my case a cell went it's own way, multiplied to the point of being recognised, treated as well as it could be for as long as could be done but soon it will have its way and it'll be me in a box in the crem. But what if the disease starts of as just a word.

A word that becomes a thought, that becomes an idea, that becomes an all consuming malady from which the sufferer can barely switch off for just long enough to convince, maybe only partially but sufficiently, that they are alright. How great must the struggle be to keep that which torments the mind hidden, particularly from those who know you best?

I can't hide my spots from a scanner, nor my deranged blood from a haematologist. I can't ignore the pain. I can't fight the fatigue. I can't ignore the nausea. I can't not be pale when the hospice nurse comes.

The mind is so totally different in every way imaginable, indeed in ways unimaginable. I'm fortunate, too lazy I suppose to dwell on things although I have known stress and anxiety but I've always had outlets for them. Mostly going out in boats but at a very bad time in my mental history I was allowed to buy another motor bike after a hiatus of too many years following a broken pelvis, seriously damaged right shoulder, still apparent, a not as badly damaged left shoulder, knee borne gravel rash and so on.

I should have been a better motorcyclist. I tried, did police return to biking courses,  pretty good, a police advanced course, fabulous in the rain with a plod from Camborne. Keep up with me if you can, catch me if you dare, overtake me by all means but keep to be rules of the road. I could hardly follow him, let alone keep up! Later on I also paid the fines and collected the points.

It's the only new vehicle I ever had but when you get home stressed out and you fire up the bike the only thing you notice is the two or three inch width of the front contact patch and the tarmac immediately in front of it. I did hundreds and hundreds of miles like that. It kept me sane. Boats, too! Not everyone can do things like that. I had those opportunities and I could never adequately express my gratitude for them. If I hadn't how long would it have taken my brain to shut down? it did once for a couple of days and I'm still conscious of the effect it had.

The worst thing was that I had no idea how bad I was. My mates with whom I shared a beer or two on a Friday night did, though! My wife did. One colleague did. It was only me who didn't.

In a while I'll have two of these, two of them, one of those and an extra strong mint. A preloaded oral syringe will be easily accessible and I will sleep well until I wake and squirt the syringe down my throat at which point I will lie still, marshall my thoughts and pray.

I will give thanks to God that my cancer is being treated, that I am surrounded by grace and people who I love and who love me. And I will pray for those lying awake in the desperate throes of mental turmoil about which only they are aware. And powerless in its grip.

Early this morning I read Psalm 88. It is the mind of unrelenting unrest put into words. No cure is offered. You can't snap out of it, you can't get over it, can't just get on with it. You can only suffer. Like any disease it is not always fatal, some live with it to a ripe old age, some don't. What is certain though, is that it is every bit as bad as, and I think worse than cancer. You can ask why but you won't get an answer, you can scream at the injustice but it won't bring relief, self pity only makes you more difficult to be with. So what can you say?

All I can say is that my last four years have been a trial, far more so for those who love me, though and the end is inevitable but unlikely to be sudden. I have time it seems. Those around me have time but it is not always so, is it?

The other lesson that I've learned is that the God of the bible makes himself very real to you, to us. Dependably so, often in amazing ways and always at exactly the right time. We have learned things about God in the last few years that I'm not sure we otherwise would have. Does that make up for losing Paul, having T4 ampullary cancer, honestly, no. It would take a far more godly man than me to say I'd not rather have Paul back, feel well again and do whatever, but it has been truly humbling to experience and at times almost unbearable to accept.

I shall pray that a recently widowed mum and her kids would prove that God is who he says he is and does what he says he will. I will pray that soon God's goodness, his care and lovingkindness would slowly but surely saturate them. That before too long they would be able to share their experience of God's provision for them with others. That peace would infuse their lives now, eventually shoots of joy would blossom and that one day even a degree of happiness would seep back into their lives.

I shall pray also for those anxious, stressed out and increasingly tired individuals who wrestle almost continually with an enemy I can only barely conceive of. And that they would acknowledge their predicament and seek appropriate help. If they can. I will also pray that they may be given whatever mental strength they need to combat the insidious invasion of the out of control thought and triumph over it as well as the courage to recognise and accept that they may need to alter their lives in whatever way is necessary to limit the havoc such thoughts can cause.

Without doubt, though, the greatest lesson that I have learned is that no matter what we think, no matter what we wish, God does what is best. I often don't understand it but I believe it to be true with every cell in my body. Especially the not very nice ones.

Miles of space, no distance.

I celebrate today, my sister is sixty. Sixty! I ought to be a good brother and say she doesn't look a day over fifty-nine. I was restrained from whats apping for hours and hours this morning but eventually I was graciously allowed to press send at 0800 ish.

It is still one of life's markers that on my 60th she turned up with a huge box complete with red ribbon. The aroma gave the game away as there's nothing, absolutely nothing that smells as good as a pasty. Except a boxfull of them! Three years ago today I got my piercing but the pasties come to mind far more readily

Lying still one was wondering how best to celebrate, apart from coffee. The answer  was, eventually, obvious and appropriately supplied by my brother.

What more could you want to hail this auspicious morn, fried eggs and hoggs puddn. The fact that the owner of the oven was up Tescos helped. Alas it did take enough energy to require a sit down which accounts for the darker tone of the hoggs puddn than is optimal.


Hoggs puddn, handsome stuff. It was rich.  Every mouthful a joyful soiree along gourmet avenue.

So, happy birthday, Amanda, thanks for the hoggs puddn, Andrew. Miles of space may separate us but no distance.

Now, once the fridge is refilled, the cooking irons sorted, cooker splatters wiped away and my energy is restored no doubt I shall be required to make coffee.

That, too will be another of life's unbridled pleasures.
Then I shall while away the hours before Helen calls dozing through F1 test day 3.

Life it just gets better and better, unless you judge it by what you can't do.

Life - Epic Fail

In an hour or two the 2020 F1 season gets going with test day 1 of 6 in Barcelona. I could get mildly excited but this morning's darkness covered the first time that it's taken two doses of Oramorph to get me through the night.

Last July whilst wandering along Mumbles sea front I felt the need to go back to the house to watch the start of the 2019 Tour de France. As the previous tour ended I doubted I'd see the next one. The same thought crossed my mind later in the year listening to my oncologist talking numbers. It wasn't a big deal to anyone else and I didn't mention it but after seeing the Grand Depart 2019 I went back to stroll with the others.

Even watching F1 last year began aimlessly As I didn't really expect to see it's conclusion but LH44 wrapped it up long before the maths decided it. When the competition is inferior, inadequate, incompetent or just downright accident prone it makes his job a trifle less difficult. That's not to take anything away from his driving, he is undoubtedly a great, not Jim Clark great, but great in a modern number crunching robotic way. I just wish he'd keep quiet about everything else. Being a great driver is enough, being a evangelical vegan and prophet of woke is totally uneccessary,  and frankly, detrimental to him. Great driver, jerk of a bloke!

I also watched the first two rounds of WRC 2020, go Elfyn! I remember watching his dad. Much of the cricket's been good, too.

Marking your life in coffee cups, sporting events or the intriguing passage of days is as nothing though, compared to one or two really immense days, or parts of them. Like assembling an electric BMW with a very excited and increasingly impatient nearly 4 yr old.

Before careful wrapping, not by me, the battery charger was found, carefully unboxed, plugged in overnight, carefully repacked and restowed the next morning.

Come the afternoon, come the mum and grandson. Cue amazement at the size of the box or may be the acreage of Paw Patrol paper. For me? Yup. Oooooo! Hardly delicate the unwrapping procedure but effective. Once the glory of the opened box was revealed what passes for jumping for joy was a delight to behold.

Parts removed, mostly recognised and cries of make it, granda, get tools from the shed. I duly got them and passed them to a willing helper. Rear axle, here you are, one rear wheel, here, other one, here and so it went on pausing only for the briefest explanation of the Ackermann steering Principle but I felt it uneccessary to check where the angle of intersection met in relation to the rear axle, let alone gauge the tracking,  just connect it all up.

When building cars there's always something very special about putting them on their wheels for the first time, just looking at the rolling chassis is to pause and soak up the anticipation of the promised drive. Doesn't matter what the car, its the same  even for a largely plastic electric BMW.

Steering wheel, various connections, seat squab, seat back and can I get in it now, granda? Well let's get it on the floor first, eh? OK. Once on the floor the start button is obvious to a nearly 4yr old. It was pressed. Nothing happened. Nothing. The disappointment palpable. Granda? A lash up. Yup. Epic fail, indeed.

I removed the seat back, his mum read the book of words with pictures, I removed the seat squab. Shouldn't this be plugged in there asked his mum showing me a picture and pointing to a very obviously loose plug residing next to an obviously matching socket.

By now the impatience was overpowering the excitement of a nearly 4yr old but as soon as the screws were screwed he was in there. Lights lit, noises erupted, the pedal was pressed and the hallway traversed. It stopped in exactly the right place. I was in awe of his ability but I am anyway. Then I noticed that his mum had got the remote control override thingy. Mum was in control. Why are mums so good? And it left the factory charged.

Over the two sleeps our hallway has been traversed countless times, endless phone videos what's apped and his granda slowly getting to grips with once again ably demonstrating how to be a proper lash up. Years of practise.

One of life's precious moments. But now it's all packed up, the two sleeps are over and his grampy  and granny await their presence an hour away. F1 continues to circulate, the rain falls, the gloomy sky lowers and I feel as rough as rats but I'm hoping chemicals can sort that.

None of that matters though, last thing before they went I had a squeeze, a hug, a kiss which may have been a cwtch from a nearly 4 yr old, more precious than gold, pure gold. If I don't see the end of F1 practice day 1 let alone Melbourne in March, it really doesn't matter.

What an awesome nearly four years to have lived through. Heights of blessing, depths of sorrow I had no idea existed but our God has seen fit to let our experience be as it has been and it has been truly wonderful. Seems a strange thing to say but it has been a privilege to get to know a nearly four year old and his mum and to experience the goodness of our God as we have been allowed to do.

Shallow as spit

After my first term or two away at college I was back home hanging around down shore shelter. Having been away for at least a month or two and being a teenager I knew it all. I can't remember the details but we were talking about someone famous who'd said something. There was an old man, except he was probably much younger then than I am now, called Charlie Ninnis. He'd been around, war, sea, life. He never said much just smiled, sometimes but when he did speak I'm sure his beret moved more than his lips and all he said was, "Shallow as spit, boy, shallow as spit". End of. A lovely character as so many were men who'd lived a life.

Yesterday morning I noted a news report that emergency services had recovered two bodies from the sea off Margate, Kent. At or about 0520 pagers summoned the local coastguard teams, their helicopter crews and the crew and shore helpers of Margate lifeboat. I could picture every detail. Ordinary blokes responding in the darkness and storm in an instant to go to the aid of a couple of people they didn't know, not that it mattered at all,

That was it. By tea time the airwaves, internet and tv was awash with Caroline Flack. I had no idea who she was but she'd taken her own life at 40. Very sad. It seems to me that she was a minor celebrity who had climbed to celeb status by standing in front of cameras to flash her teeth and curves. Suddenly there were showers of Twitter extolling her virtues, singing her praises, unsmiling smileys abounded. One caught my ear, she had so many friends it told us. Shallow as spit.

When it really mattered she never had a friend in the world, not one she could go to, not one she could ring, she was utterly alone. Suicide is a terrible and complex thing and rarely when it is intended will it fail to succeed. It should be recognised that the state of mind must have been in unbearable turmoil which I suggest should warrant something more than emojis and tweets that are shallow as spit.

Some time this week or next we will be shown the luvvies attending her funeral. They'll make sure there's a gap between them as they parade to the door so as to ensure that they don't have to share the camera frame with anyone else. They will be hemmed in by crush barriers to keep the crowds back. The crowds with their camera phones to the fore hoping for a shot of some celeb or other and hopefully a selfie. Mourners? I think not, in their worId it's about being seen. I suspect that without press, cameras and adoring public the attendees would be noticeably fewer.

Indeed, the week began with We buy any car.schofield confessing his gayness live on air. I wasn't watching but you couldn't avoid the luvvie responders. Characteristically shallow as spit. I know nothing of him except that he began on hospital radio in Derriford and I only know that because the hospital radio man told me when I was in there. So, Schofield was able to find a shoulder to cry on, in the full glare of a tv studio, of course. Ooooo, aaaaah, hero, such bravery, we're all so proud of you and so it went on sounding somewhat less than sincere. Reminded me of sick dropping into a bucket.

I knew I was gay before I got married, he told the members of his adoring bubble. Then why did you get married? Because in those days to be identified as homosexual would hardly have furthered you career, thus marriage was the easiest option, it was self serving, self centred and utterly gutless, spineless. It used to be called cowardice and was not looked on favourably. But times have changed, to identify as homosexual now gives kudos, admiration, pats on the back and more fame yet, so it was worth wrecking a marriage, putting space between those you say you loved.

Bravery, being heroic would have cost, but then, it always does. The right thing to do, the courageous thing to do, the brave thing to do would have been to stand by the vows you made, take the hit and kept quiet about it. But self serving selfishness combined with spineless cowardice made it all a price worth paying. Shallow as spit.

Then we had Joker preaching to us at the oscars. A man recognised as being good at learning lines and pretending to be someone he isn't. I didn't see it, haven't heard it but I read chunks and that's exactly what it comes across as. A man pretending. I was bad but you gave me a second chance, be kind, look after the planet and on it went. An essay of wokeness, another actor telling us that he knows better than us and we should do what he says, not what he does of course. Shallow as spit.

My Brexit vote was always a political issue but it became a moral one when the front page of the papers showed Bob Geldof flicking V signs and hurling profanities at Nigel Farage and a bunch of fishermen on the Thames. Ordinary fishermen who earned their living the hard way ridiculed by a so called pop star. Now, let me admit that I have some sympathy for Geldof having suffered tragedy and written beautifully of his daughter, Peaches but he's not alone in that. Apart from which, what's he really done? Made about 15minutes of memorable music and organised Live aid, well done but if he's the face of live aid Midge Ure was the heart and backbone. Anyway they raised a huge amount of money for famine relief. Fantastic, kudos, respect. Now, tell me why that gives him the right to denigrate, belittle, profane and insult a boat full of ordinary working fishermen who work every day in a hostile environment, none of whom would be unfamiliar with tragedy and serious injury. Geldof, shallow as spit.

On Brexit, too, my decision was reinforced by being called every unpleasant name under the sun by another luvvie, Hugh Grant. I mean, put him in front of the cameras on his own terms and its all cheesy grins and look at me. Photograph him outside toilets in L.A. soliciting prostitutes the press are the most evil people on earth, except for leave voters who are thick as well otherwise they wouldn't have voted as they did. I hope he realises he confirmed the rightness of my vote. Who is he to pontificate on such things. He can learn lines but even Joker played Johnny Cash, Grant only plays himself it seems to me and even I can do that. Shallow as spit.

Don't even mention Lineker, ex footballer, private life hardly exemplary, sells crisps. I like crisps. Don't like football even less footballers who say awful things about me as well. Another one, shallow as spit. I could go on. My brain wants to my finger doesn't.

I would like to know who lost their lives off Margate, though. The press won't be interested unless of course, they are celebrities but I doubt that.  What I do not doubt is that those two bodies recovered from the sea have families who are distraught, in the inky depths of sorrow, despair leaving the dried tear tracks just that bit harder to wipe away. We won't hear about them but we can mourn for those who mourn, whose lives have forever changed in an instant. Those left behind are going to have to face each day with a degree of bravery and the quiet heroism that just makes you get on and do what needs to be done.

You want to to know what heroism costs? Speak to the partners of those in bed in the early hours of a cold and stormy night when a pager goes off and they're left behind. Want to see a hero? Don't bother asking those who respond to the pagers, not one would consider themselves brave, let alone heroic. They're just ordinary people you'd pass in the street, glad to be able to help when it really matters but more glad to be left alone afterwards.

Real heroes, Google Bill Deacon, washed off a winchwire trying to rescue the crew of a ship in a storm under the Hebridean cliffs. Look at the names carved in stone on Penlee lifeboat house wall, or St.Ives, Fraserborough, Broughty Ferry et al.

You can learn more in a throwaway line from a person who's lived a life than a lifetime paying heed to celebrities and their luvvie hangers on who being shallow as spit have nothing to offer except by way of warning. I actually feel sorry for them in their insular, isolated luvvie bubbles, fawning studios and baying crowds of aspirants there lies a great fear, I suspect the greatest is the fear of dying alone. Or maybe it's being found out for being what they are, shallow as spit.

Thanks, Charlie. Such a depth of wisdom, made growing up where and when I did a privilege and being amongst real people who said it as it is more precious than gold.

The descent to perfection

Last evening as Leonard Cohen entertained with his words of wit, wisdom and timeless truth I came across an article bemoaning the demise of printed magazines. The claim was made that it was largely caused by "influencers" who attracted advertisers budgets to their online sites. Now, I confess, I have no idea what an "influencer" is but I do know what makes a good magazine. Specifically, quality prose and visually arresting art. This led me to a consideration of a couple of tall piles of magazines in the small bedroom upstairs.

Decades of Car, years of Supercar Classics

In the days when Car Magazine was a much anticiated monthly event the longed for parts were written by George Bishop, who may have mentioned a car or two as he wrote mainly about the cuisine he encountered on his journeys to collect said cars. But the highlight was always LJK Setright. As well as road tests he had two monthly columns, "Handlebars" which focused on motorbikes and "Any other business" which didn't. The piles of Car are supplemented with interspaced Supercar Classics. The latter was eagerly awaited for the quality of the artwork, the Car photos were excellent apart form a little overuse of graduated filters but Supercar Classics were something else, and by far the best parts of it were the pages containing illustrations by Bob Freeman.

In the early hours of this morning I was thinking of LJKS, died at least 15 years ago in his 70's but the finest automotive writer to have ever written. I read tomes of engineering books, magazines, papers, anything, but to mis quote The Boss, I learned more from a 10 minute consideration of LJKS than I ever did from them. He was erudite. He knew stuff. Not just car stuff, an engineer, a musician, a conisseur of everything fine in life and he could write. His writing flows, it caresses, it is to be savoured. It's only words on paper but it's a bit like a toasted tea cake and butter. Apart they're not a big deal but together the butter melts into the cake and it visbly gets better before your very eyes, the anticipation of it is a delight, the eating of it an end in itself. It leaves you wanting more, just like articles by LJKS.

I remember he once did a piece comparing a Rolls to a Bentley and in describing their suspension characteristics he likened landing a Rolls to his old Linn Ittok tonearm, it landed, he said, gracefully and under control with only the very slightest rebound as the stylus took up its position but if observed carefully from head on it was possible to discern the slightest sideways movement, the Bentley landed like his new Ittok, the one I have, landed with a little less vertical rebound than the former but looked at from head on no matter how studiously observed you could detect no latertal deflection whatsoever.... You've got to love that. Yumping RR's and Bentleys. Mind you he once remarked after taking a 3.8 E-Type Mk1 from London to Great Malvern via Oxford and Cheltemham parking up one was aware that the previous 105 miles were covered in just under 90 minutes .... on crossplies!

On another occasion he described his VW Scirocco Storm as unsuited to this tyre, suited to this but best suited to that before going into an explanation of rubber hysteresis, slip angles, spring rates, damping and the iniquity (his word) of ever thicker anti roll bars. From that moment on I have never had a car with anything but seriously decent rubber on each wheel. Indeed, just last week when a friend with a Jazz, newer than ours, came over he was bemoaning its tendency to run wide on corners. Fit such and such Bridgestones I said. We have and ours holds its line like it was on rails, bearing in mind that a Jazz is probably incapable of overwhelming a decent tyre anyway. Our old Lexus had some amazingly grippy Bridgestones fitted when we had the suspension optimised .... just a little bit! The Merc has Michelin Pilot Sports on and we had them on a previous Jazz and our old Rover GTi. I suppose LJKS was an influencer.

By far the most eloquent piece I remember him writing got me into trouble as I once used it in a personnel report when I described a person as approaching perfection in an engineering environment, not terribly wise, or clever, me. LJKS stated that in engineering terms the closer one approached simplicity the nearer one approached perfection. KISS, keep it simple, stupid but he's right. A good engineer will make a machine perform using the minimum of components. I have applied that to many things, a fixie bike, a Lancia Strato's, my Fuji x100. It doesn't call for minimalism, it calls for the most efficient use of materials and space needed for the item to do its job well and reliably.

Thus in the silent darkness of the early hours I was thinkling of my descent toward perfection. After all, what is the minimum I need? A bit of strength and control to draw air into my lungs and a heart to pump the oxygenated blood to my brain. Pretty minimal, eh? Just not much fun. The lungs are strugling, almost vainly at times, the heart seems OK and once the drugs wane a bit the brain livens up. Even going upstairs last night someone inside tried to cut their way out with an assegai stinging into my lower right side. My right neck, shoulder, upper arm hurt. My belly ached. It's like a broad belt being inexorably tightened which in turn aggravates the breathing. It's not nice. Enduring it is not nice but the thoughts engendered are worse. But the most horrible part is responding to the one beside you when asked a question. What comes out is not very nice and apologies are called for just as soon as you realise what you've said and who you've said it to.

Fortunately my cogitation of the descent into perfection was interrupted by the need for relief. Under the influence of whatever morph is most potent the desire manifests itself hastily which is OK if you can move fast. Our toilet at the other end of the landing is adorned with picture rail. Over the years I've restored the picture rail to all our rooms bar one and the offcuts are fixed in the toilet. Adopting the manly position one is left face to face with a framed Bob Freeman. It depicts a detail water colour and ink drawing of the left hand bank of a Maserati V8 complete with Bob's annotations. Like the magazines it was a bequest from my colleague and dear friend, Justin, at whose funeral I should have eulogised but I was in Singleton Hospital, Swansea in the ICU for babies, our grandson having been born the day before 3 months premature.

I learned how I ought to see from a book called The art of seeing by John Berenger but a day with Bob Freeman taught me how to see. Even if that engine, perfectly depicted had never worked it remains a thing of beauty. Indeed, what I learned most from my time with Bob was how nice a bloke he was and how to see what is truly beautiful. He called it the ABC, the Accidentally Beautiful Consequence. Anything well made (and he was specifically talking of the Curtiss Aero engine in The British Museum) and made to work well will be beautiful. It is not made to be beautiful, it's beauty comes from being able to do what it's designer intended. The Maserati on our toilet wall is a thing of beauty.

I can still think, write this nonsense, enjoy music, even Leonard Cohen, I can speak albeit a bit quietly at times, I must apologise, I can still engage D and my right foot still dances on the pedals, albeit a little slower but everything about my life is.

Magazines are not going bust beacuse of their advertising revenue going to influencers, they are going bust because their writers and graphic artists are just writers and graphic software users. There is poetry in Bob's Maserati as there is in the writing of LJKS, there's information, too from a life lived not a jobsworth writer, there's romance and erudition, learning and all together these make the joy of reading LJKS or looking at Bob Freeman's work a delight in themselves.

Indeed, that's what art is all about, taking you somewhere, preferably somewhere better somewhere you want to be. So much currently displayed is the product of angry minds, disturbed by life, rightly filled with injustices, cruelty base human characteristics but I know anger, I know pain, I know distress, I know injustice but I want to be taken somwhere else, I don't want to engage with the mind of a distraught artist with an agenda to shock. Indeed, when so many try to shock it becomes commonplace, unable to shock it ends up being ignored which is surely the worst outcome for any artist. Maybe that's why I was so grateful to Princess Kate for her holocaust portraits in full on Rembrandt lighting. Shocking subjects, beautiful art. Bravo, Kate.

Even at its' most indivisible there's beauty. I have become aware that when tired I've been shuffling, surfing the furniture and doorways. My feet have noted the thresholds that they never noticed before so at the threshold I look down to see it and there's a beautiful piece of polished oak. It brings a joy, a delight and removes the thoughts blighted by recognising increasing inablities. Art literal, visual, aural, when it can take you somewhere nice, fill your mind with pleasue, displace the pain of reality is doing it's job, making statements of the obvious can be done by anyone, seeing beauty is only for those with minds open to it.

I shall shortly go up and dig out some of Justin's old magazines again and reread bits of them just for the thrill of reading them, after all they're 60's, 70's, 80's and a few 90's so not exactly current. But as Keats said, a thing of beauty is a joy forever. I don't expect many magazines in Smiths this morning will be kept for weeks, let alone cherished for decades.

So the descent to perfection is not yet complete but I'm on the way and one day I shall be made perfect, but not whilst still living in this world.