The last few weeks (if not months) have been a bit chaotic here in Alcoholic Daze Towers. My organised routine has been somewhat overturned by events, resulting in disorganised chaos. I have tried to keep my head above water, but it has not been easy, but calmer waters are on the horizon.
My daughter Kay changed jobs in August. She is still a doctor, but has moved to the London region from Surrey. As a registrar doctor, she has at least a four or five-year climb to get to consultant level. It involves working in a different hospital every year to gain experience of different regions and different types of hospital, such as a big teaching hospital or a small district general. If she had stayed in Surrey, it is part of the Kent, Surrey, Sussex deanery and would have involved changing EACH YEAR to anywhere in that region - perhaps Brighton one year, Guildford the next, Dover another, Dartford another and so on. That makes commuting from home a challenge and impossible to buy property if you are not rooted in one place. So she decided to move to the London region instead, where commuting is much easier to and from most hospitals in that region, be they North, South , East or West London.
Fortunately her first posting in London was to a district general not far from me, so she has been living with me during the week to help her commute and spending weekends at her rented flat in Surrey. Her boyfriend Darcy has also been living with us during the week over the last five weeks, as his work has brought him to London too. They are in the process of buying a house close to me but the purchase has dragged on longer than anticipated, as the solicitors (ours and the vendors) thrash it out between themselves. Kay and Darcy are first time buyers and the house they are buying belongs to an old lady now in a care home, so you would think the transaction would have been relatively easy, but, oh no.
As if that was not bad enough, some painter/decorators whom I had hired last November to plaster Kay's bedroom ceiling and walls, paint them and also paint the top landing and sheer drop down the stairs, have been slow to get to me (it was originally planned for April) and could only start at the beginning of October. The timing could not have been worse. It has meant Kay and Darcy have had to decamp from Kay's bedroom to a tiny box bedroom, hardly big enough for the bed, let alone anything else. Because my crazy 6-storey house has so many stairs, it has involved moving the rest of the bedroom furniture down a flight of stairs and storing in the study/bedroom. Nothing is where it should be and we have been very cramped. Add to that the fact that Kay was on nightshifts last week so the painters could not work while she was sleeping during the day and that has added to the timescale. Finally at the end of October we moved everything back into the newly decorated bedroom and Kay and Darcy had more room to spread out. Additionally I gained back my study! Just in time for them to move out altogether. Completion was on Tuesday and moving day is today!
Kay and I spent the last few days in her new house, trying to clean it. More of that later......
Yorkshire Pudding's recent post about a kindness done to him while on holiday in Greece reminded me of a similar story about a holiday we had in Greece back in the 1980s. We had many holidays during that decade visiting a number of Greek islands and one in particular has always stuck in my mind - that of Naxos. At that time Naxos did not have an airport and we had reached it by flying to nearby Mykonos and getting a ferry there. It was therefore at the time less touristy than most Greek islands, although many Germans had managed to get there somehow and put their towels on the deckchairs! English tourists were in the minority, which is why I suppose we liked it so much there.
One evening Greg and I were sitting at a harbour-front restaurant enjoying the sunset, when a group of Germans at a nearby table starting shouting and arguing very loudly. Their inebriated conversations became more and more raucous and were clearly irritating a lot of the other diners. Suddenly a waiter appeared at our table with a bottle of wine which we had not ordered. When we said there must be some mistake, he said that it was courtesy of the man on the adjacent table - an elderly Greek man dining alone who looked remarkably like Anthony Quinn in the film Zorba the Greek. As we looked across he raised his glass at us.
However, a project I have been planning since last year - to have one of the bedrooms decorated - is coming to fruition in the next few weeks. The painter I had hired last November has only just got round to doing the job I'd planned for last Spring, as he has been so busy. The room needs replastering and the plasterer he has sub-contracted is coming on Wednesday. This weekend Kay, Darcy and I have been clearing the room of furniture. That is no mean feat as my house is on six levels, which means furniture and possessions have to not only be removed from a room for it to be decorated but taken down a flight of stairs too and found a temporary home. I'm sure it'll be worth it in the long run to have a lovely guest room, but the house currently looks a tip and I can't find anything!
|HM Queen Elizabeth II|
The wall-to wall TV coverage on all main channels last night showed just how much she was revered. There were scenes of predominantly young people who flocked to Buckingham Palace in the pouring rain to soak up the atmosphere of grief, showing that it was like their favourite granny had died.
For me, the most poignant footage was the rainbow over Windsor Castle. The sky wept for her and the heavens built a bridge for her. God bless you, Ma'am. You served us well.
My local High Street boasts four national banks and a handful of building societies. Until recently, that is. Two of the building societies (Santander and Halifax) have recently closed and the branch of the bank where I hold my main account (HSBC) is closing this week, meaning I shall have to go further afield to do any in-bank transactions or speak to a real person.
Over the weekend, I had been going through my wardrobe and throwing out quite a lot of clothes I had not used in a decade or three - always hoping some items might come back into fashion, but now accepting that I would never wear them again. In so doing, I came upon a single suit of Greg's that I had hung on to out of sentimental reasons and decided now was the time to give it away to charity. As I checked through the pockets I found an old £5 note.
Today, while I was in the High Street, I tried to exchange the old £5 note for a valid one. I decided to pop into my bank for one last time, before it closes its doors. Sadly, my bank told me that whilst it would still be valid to exchange it, they no longer had the counter services to do so , just machines to pay in, machines to pay out and machines to do minor transactions, so they could not help. I went to two other banks who said exactly the same. They no longer have counter services and only machines and therefore could not exchange the £5, although in theory they were still accepting them. They advised me to to go to a bigger bank in a busier part of London that still has counter services.
I read in the newspaper the other day that by 2027 cash will more than likely be phased out completely. Too many transactions are done now by debit card or credit card and since the pandemic, cards have become more and more the way to pay. Transactions are done online and there is no need for real money. It is fine for me as I am computer savvy, but for many elderly people it will cause immense problems.
It got me musing that in future the grandchildren will not only ask, "Did you see any dinosaurs when you were little , Granny?" but also "Did you really pay for things with little metal coins and paper notes?" We have had cash for centuries and centuries, but it seems modern technology will eradicate that entirely.
I failed to post a couple of weeks ago that Kay became a fully fledged member of the Royal College of Physicians. To enter their hallowed portals, the doctors have to sit three very stringent and complicated exams. You cannot sit the second exam until you have passed the first and so on, and need to pass all three. Kay's friend has failed the first one six times and is stuck in limbo. I hasten to add that you have to pay an eye-watering fee to sit these exams. Kay managed to pass all three over a period of a few years, in between working hard as a junior doctor, and received the news back in 2019 that she could now call herself a Member of the Royal College of Physicians and use the MRCP after her name. However, the official ceremony to welcome her into this honoured institution was due in the summer of 2020 and was subsequently cancelled because of Covid restrictions. She has been waiting all this time for the ceremony to be scheduled and that was three weeks ago. Her fiance, Darcy, and I went along for moral support. The day was tinged slightly by the absence of her father, Greg, as I am sure he would have been chuffed to ribbons to be there. We just hope he was looking down on us and in fact there was an unusual line in the President's closing speech which Greg would often use, so we felt he was there.
The College is part modern (having been built by the same architect as the South Bank complex) and part old buildings in pristine condition rented out by the Royal Household. The Royal College was founded by Henry VIII in 1518 and has just celebrated its 504th anniversary. In the 1500s medical practice in England was poorly regulated. Many ‘physicians’ were working with no formal training or knowledge, and almost certainly killed as many patients as they cured. The leading physicians of the early 16th century wanted the Crown to grant licenses to those with actual qualifications and to standardise practice and so the Royal College was set up. God help anyone who crossed Henry VIII's path! Over the years, the College has been situated in different parts of London, including in the City of London, but now resides alongside Regent's Park.
Here are a few photos I took on the day.
|A whole street, no less|
|Learn this information off by heart|
|The ceremony - spot Kay!|
|Old pharmacy jars|
WFH. Another modern abbreviation creeping into our language. It stands for 'Working From Home', a concept born of necessity during the many Covid lockdowns we have had over the last few years. It has changed people's (and employer's) views about whether it is necessary to work in the workplace any more. People have found they can move out of the cities and live in the countryside or even abroad and still carry out their work from the comfort of their home. Spare bedrooms have been converted into offices or grand outbuildings built at the end of the garden to house an office. One suspects that they work in their pyjamas, start their day at 11am instead of 9am, finish at 3pm instead of 5pm and have two hours for lunch or have half an eye on daytime TV.
Of course there are some professions where it is not possible. Like Kay's for example - she is a hospital doctor - there is no way she can work from home. She has been working in the hospital every week since the first mention of Covid back in early 2020. Shopkeepers can't work from home. Nor can firemen, aeroplane pilots, plumbers, or public transport workers. There are many more who cannot stay at home to carry out their work.
However, Working From Home seems to suit a lot of office workers who just need a phone and a computer to connect to their work base and to the wider public. Among this motley crew are the civil servants of this realm. Now, I was a civil servant in my working career, so I know how things work and run in the Westminster corridors. In my day, I was a floor or two beneath the Ministers and would often have to pop up to brief them before their visits round the UK or abroad, if they needed further questions answered. I suppose nowadays, they can get round that with an email and with zoom meetings instead, but even so, the response should be immediate. Which brings me on to my big grouse.... everything these days seems to take an age for what was once a simple procedure. It has been much widely publicised that various businesses and government departments (especially the Passport Office and DVLA) seem to take an age to process paperwork with the excuse that staff are working from home. We are supposed to forgive them, be patient and understand this delay. But why? Lockdowns are long gone, things are back to normal, we are being told masks are not really mandatory any more in shops or on public transport and we should go back to normal and live alongside Covid. So, if staff working from home are causing delays to the running of the system, then why have them working at home? We should not accept that an easy peasy lifestyle for the office worker will inconvenience the public or slow down an otherwise slick process.
My grouse is personal. I have been on the receiving end of this WFH malarkey. Living alone and in a house with five flights of stairs, I am conscious that one false move could have me bouncing down stairs and ending in an unconscious gibbering heap for days on end. To that aim, back in the New Year, I decided it would be prudent to apply for Power of Attorney, so that, should anything ghastly happen to me, my daughter could make decisions about my health and finances. I sent off for the two forms for Health and Finance, filled them out, got signatures witnessed, paid £164 to cover the two forms, and posted them on 31 January to the Office of the Public Guardian(OPG), the civil service body that deals with this. Bear that date in mind, because, dear reader, it will become very crucial to my story. So how long, do you think it takes to process this sort of application. A week? A month? Two months? Take a wild guess.
So, here I am on 10 August and still waiting. That's six and a half months!
The first indication that the application had even been received was around late February when the £164 came out of my bank account, so from that I assumed that they must have received everything, not that they bothered to tell me. Another couple of months went by and in April I tried to ring OPG to find out what was happening to my case. The answerphone said I was 69 in the queue and every so often interjected to say that staff were working home from home and begged my patience to hold on. After 20 minutes I had made it to 67 in the queue and guessed I'd be on the phone all day at that rate, so hung up and emailed them. I received a holding email to say, again, that I should be patient as staff were working from home yada yada and their reply would take 25 working days. Some 25 working days or even later, their email said they were working on it.
In mid May, both Kay (the person who would act for me in the event of my demise) and I received letters to say that the application would be approved, if nobody objected within 3 weeks. However, they had spelled Kay's surname incorrectly, despite it being correct on the application form and the same surname as mine. We felt we needed to draw their attention to that, as almost certainly some jobsworth in the future would say the document was not legally binding. Kay rang them up to discover she was 71 in the queue. Working in a hospital these days means she doesn't even have time for a toilet break, let alone to hang on the phone indefinitely, so she emailed OPG to point out the error. She received a reply that she would hear back from them in - you've guessed it - 25 working days.
Finally, the OPG-registered authorisation of my application duly arrived at the beginning of June - with the incorrect spelling of Kay's surname. At that point I just blew a gasket. I emailed their complaints department and received a holding reply that they would answer within 10 working days. I am STILL WAITING for this some 40 days later.
Ten days ago, I had had enough, I wrote a letter to the Chief Executive firing all the bullets I could muster. I'm still waiting for his/her response. Maybe he/she is working from home too.
Do you ever have one of those days when by 9am, you wish you'd stayed in bed?
I needed to go to the post office first thing this morning to post two parcels of things I had sold on ebay. As I had been using a local post office a lot recently and was embarrassed to go in yet again with a load of parcels, I decided to drive further afield to another post office about 2 miles away (and thereby charge the car battery). There is paid parking around that post office so I decided to park in the forecourt of the adjacent small Tesco petrol station, except, when I got there, the forecourt was roped off as a huge petrol tanker was there filling up the pumps. Rather disgruntled, I had to pay for parking after all and entered the post office as they opened. As I got to the counter, the post mistress told me the computer was down and she could not take the parcels. I'd paid for parking for nothing!
I set off for the post office I usually go to and posted them there. I could have saved myself time and money, going there in the first place after all.
Meanwhile I am still elated from last night's football game. I am always a bit on the fence when there are games with England v Germany, as I am half and half myself, but I was heartily pleased we won. We did much better than the men's team. Who said women aren't as good as men? To think a century ago we weren't even allowed to play!
I've just been away. On holiday. By the seaside. I managed to escape my cage for a short break with my best friend of 53 years. I even went abroad - if you can count The Isle of Wight as abroad!
Holidays these days seem to be a rare option for me. Being a widow, with no siblings and with friends who are either married and have their own plans or live a million miles away so not geographically or socially close to arrange such things with me, means that I either contemplate a holiday alone or just don't go anywhere at all. When my recently-widowed best friend of 53 years (we met as 18-year-olds on our first day at uni at the hall of residence when we came out of our rooms to use the bathroom) suggested we go away somewhere together, I leapt at the chance. She lives about 80 miles from me, so all arrangements were done by phone or text.
When Kay was little, my husband and I used to take her camping in the New Forest. The campsite there was run by the Forestry Commission and we had wild ponies wandering around our tent which was a real joy for a five-year-old. We visited the New Forest many times after that and came to love Hampshire and particularly Lymington by the coast. For that reason I yearned to return one day and my friend agreed that was a lovely spot to centre our holiday.
Lymington is a lovely town full of Georgian houses built around the late 1700s or early 1800s. You half expect a heroine from a Jane Austen novel to come out of one of its front doors. Its long High Street leads downhill to a cobbled harbourside, where yachts and swans jostle for space and the lamp posts are decorated with brown-headed gulls or egrets resting their legs. I have always loved being close to water - be it sea or river or lake - as I always find it very calming for the soul. Sitting on the harbourside eating an ice cream was my idea of heaven. Of course, girls need to shop and Lymington did not disappoint with a variety of unique shops (and not the usual chain stores that you find in every High Street just about everywhere). We ventured into the New Forest and saw expanses of heathland and grazing wild ponies who wander onto the road at a split second as you pass. You have to have your eyes on stalks to be prepared for them!
|Yachts galore at Lymington|
One day we caught the Isle of Wight ferry to do a day-trip as foot passengers and went over from Lymington to Yarmouth, a quaint little "town" comprising of about two short streets of shops/pubs and no more. The ferry ride was again very relaxing and I seriously felt I was going "abroad". The weather was very sunny and balmy.
For our last day/night, we moved on to Christchurch in Dorset and again enjoyed walks by the river, seeing many yachts and hundreds of swans. The Priory and Priory gardens were amazing - mentioned in the Domesday book, the Priory is an amazing piece of architecture and as we wandered around we were treated to an organ demonstration being put on for some A-level music students who were visiting.
|Norman Hall of the Priory|
|Ship-shape town houses on the Christchurch waterfront. Price £1.3m.|
|Old ducking stool in Christchurch|
One very run-down three-bed terraced house needing lots of modernisation and hardly any garden was on offer in excess of £800,000. It's in a labyrinth of workers' houses built around the turn of the century - rows and rows and rows of them, back to back. There is no way a young couple on the bottom of the housing ladder can afford that. Even the 10% deposit is out of most people's reach. Their search continues in the hope that more properties will come on the market. Meanwhile it is looking like they might both move in with me in August, when they start their new jobs, and put their furniture in storage until a house in their price-range miraculously appears. That or the bank of Mum will have to help them get on the housing ladder at all.
Much has been said over the decades about the great North-South divide in this country. Most of its proponents from the North argue that Southerners have it all too easy, have the best jobs, houses, standard of living etc and those in the North are hard done by. Some Northerners carry their bitterness to the extreme. My daughter was bullied terribly in her first year at a university in the North by a Liverpudlian flatmate who saw it as her life's aim to reduce my daughter to a terrified wreck and completely ruined her university experience, purely because my daughter came from down south and had a London accent.
I would go as far as to say us Southerners don't have it all and are in many cases worse off for living in the South. Yes, there are plenty of jobs and plenty of housing, but our standard of living is not great. I don't dispute there there is higher unemployment in the North, but I am merely comparing like-professionals with like-housing and travel costs.
Rental property in the south is astronomical compared to that in the north. On the left of the two photos below, look at this TWO-bedroom flat on the ground floor of an old house in Newcastle for £700 per month . Compare that with a similar property in London (photo on the right) where you can only get a ONE-bedroom ground floor flat for a massive £1250 a month The further into the centre of London you look, they are even more expensive. The one shown is in the suburbs. A similar ONE-bedroom flat closer to the centre is £1550 per month.
For the last four years I have volunteered at a foodbank which is run from a local church. It started a good few years before I joined, when somebody knocked on the vicar's door and begged for food, as they had not eaten in three days. The vicar raided his larder and produced some food. A few days later, the same person returned with a few others and the queue grew. Over time, the vicar set up a trust and the foodbank was born.
It's main aim is to feed the local homeless, jobless, people of no fixed abode and sofa-surfers, but nobody is turned away. Many feel quite embarrassed to be there in the first place, but you can tell they have no choice. Some are pensioners struggling to survive on a state pension, others have mental health issues, quite a few have lost jobs during the covid pandemic. The foodbank is open for a few hours every Tuesday, Friday and Saturday.
The vicar, however, recognised that food alone was not the only answer to their problems so has, in addition to the three-weekly food collection days, set up:
When you work for the NHS as a junior doctor, you are not supposed to have a life outside the hospital. That is, at least what is looks like to me. You are not supposed to have serious relationships, settle down to buy a house or raise children. When the NHS says "jump", you reply "how high?" They don't care that you have commitments that might affect your decision to follow their bidding.
Kay has been busy since before Christmas, applying for the next stage of her career and it has been so stressful, you would not believe it. She is applying for Registrar training and selecting the specialty she will practice for the rest of her life to get her to consultant level. She has chosen two specialities which will dovetail with one another, each taking four years to qualify, so a total of at least eight years ahead of her to get to consultant.
Kay is 30 years old and newly engaged, so naturally wants to consider marriage, buying her first property and having a family in the next eight years, but all of that is in jeopardy because of her job. She has just undergone two very gruelling interviews with the two specialty authorities. On paper, she has a lot of experience and glowing references from her bosses, but 80% of her success depends on the 20-minute interview alone. Not good if you are nervous. There is a three-week wait for the results of the interviews when you find out your ranking out of the total number of people interviewed. (Obviously there are more interviewed than there are jobs available. In Kay's case, because she was made to do an extra year, when the Royal College randomly changed the rules, there is now a bottleneck of two academic years competing for one year of jobs, which makes it even more competitive). Once you have been successful at interview, you can then place the jobs available in order of preference, obviously ranking your first choices as close to where you live or want to settle, not that THAT matters a jot to the selection panel.
Kay wants to live closer to me, so I can help with childcare in the future, plus her fiance has no choice but to be based in London, so a job in London is key. She has already been putting out feelers to house prices in the area and working out with lenders what sort of mortgage they could expect. This week loomed as the week she would know whether she had been offered a job from next August and where. The offer came in on Tuesday and was not in London. In fact it was not even close. It would involve a two-hour commute each way on motorways. She was so upset to think that she may not be able to live with her fiance/husband during the working week for the next eight years, or start a family, let alone buy a house together, if she were to accept that job. All her dreams came crashing down. It is not made easier by the fact that she has to change hospitals every year to gain a wider experience of different procedures, so for example getting a job in a region that covers two or three counties could involve a commute of up to 100 miles a day, if you were bold enough to put down roots somewhere. After a stressful day or nightshift that is unthinkable. She had the choice to accept the offer, decline it or hold it in case it could be upgraded for a better offer. A better offer came in, but still not close to London and in a region that covers three counties. If she moves every year to be a reasonable distance from the hospital she is allocated, then she can say goodbye to a relationship, to kids and buying a house. It is so unfair. We are praying she gets upgraded to London, although there is no guarantee. It just depends on whether people, who have been allocated London, decide they don't want it and it can be offered to someone else.
No wonder our doctors are stressed or go abroad. The whole system needs overhauling. This is no way to treat staff. If you want to get an idea of what it is like being a junior doctor in the NHS, look no further than the BBC series This is Going to Hurt. It says it just like it is.
UPDATE: After a week of stress and nightmares, Kay has now been upgraded to an area of her choice. Why couldn't they have offered it to her in the first place?!
One of the choirs I attend at the local boys' school had its first concert of the year last weekend and its theme was loosely musicals. I say "loosely" as there was some other stuff in there too but we covered many medleys from My Fair Lady, The Sound of Music, The Lion King and then added the theme tune to The Vicar of Dibley and Putting on the Ritz. Another choir joined us to cover songs from Cats, West Side Story and Les Miserables. At the end of the concert, we adjourned to the Refectory where some of the schoolboys played in a jazz band, a brass band and a pop group. They entertained the adults (both choir members and audience) while we sipped wine and bopped away. It was great evening. Kay was able to come along and watch and said we sounded great. Here is a song or two from our performance kindly recorded by a friend who was in the audience. Spot me - I'm wearing a white top!!
The weather here has recently been incredibly mild for March and today I was even able to walk around without a coat or even a cardigan. It was a lovely sunny day with clear blue skies. I suspect the weather patterns are still coming from the South. Last week, we had a fine dusting of Saharan sand over our cars and garden furniture. My window-cleaner came today and said it had made his job twice as long, as he kept having to change the water.
The fine weather has made me want to get out more and walk to do errands rather than drive. Today I passed a sight that is a mere 50 yards from where I live and always makes me smile. It is a beacon of hope, amid the awful news coming from Ukraine, that there is basically good in the human race and good will eventually triumph over evil.
Someone along my road (let's call him Kevin) has taken it upon himself to plant a beautiful display on the common verge. Let me set the scene. This is what you see as you walk along my road.
Unfortunately, during Storm Eunice a few weeks ago, branches of the tree came crashing down and fell beside the little impromptu garden. Council workers removed the branches from the road, but cut them up and heartlessly dumped them on the flowerbeds until lorries could take them away. You can see the big scar on the tree where the branch once was.
Kevin was heartbroken about the way his good work had been trashed and put out an appeal on our local Facebook group for donations to fix it. I and many others contributed to his appeal and he raised a fair bit of money. This was the first thing to warm my heart that people appreciated what Kevin has been doing. Kevin thanked us all personally via Facebook for our donations and he promised to get the site back up to its former glory.
Today, as I walked past Kevin had obviously been busy, for this is what I saw
He has even planted a little herb garden and invited passers-by to help themselves.
It really cheers me up every time I pass it and reassures me that there are more kind people in the world than there are Putins.
My sore thumb has continued to cause problems all week - it is difficult doing things one-handed, particularly doing up waistband buttons and washing up (I'm not supposed to get the steri-strips wet). You never realise how important a digit is, until you can't use it, particularly an opposing thumb. Hopefully the bandaging can come off today and I can inspect the wound. I have not used the car this last week, as I did not want to cause an accident - grasping the gearstick with a gammy left hand was not so simple. Thank goodness for true friends who have ferried me about to choir sessions this week.
It's all small fry though, when considering what the poor people in Ukraine are going through. The West stands paralysed while Putin tells lies as an excuse to perform even more uncivilised atrocities in "retaliation" (or so he explains it in his callous mind), including threatening the West with nuclear deterrents, bombing hospitals, schools and ordinary civilians' homes.
I watched an interesting series on BBC2 about Hitler's war with Stalin (see here). It echoed many of the tactics used by Putin now and may explain what is going on in Putin's mind. I wish I knew how to copy the bit of the video here, but at 56 minutes 57 seconds on the second episode there is man talking about dictators in general and it sums up Putin to a T.
However, I cannot believe that in 2022, some 80 years after the last World War, mankind has not learned a lesson - that war is futile and deliberate war crimes will not go unpunished. My heart goes out to the Ukrainian people and I can only hope this terrible mess will be resolved quickly before more lives are lost and damage done.
Kay and Darcy visited me for the weekend to celebrate their engagement officially. We went out on Saturday evening locally for a lovely Italian meal. They certainly make an attractive couple and I am so happy for them. It takes me back to when Greg and I were young and the world lay at our feet, full of excitement and we had lots of plans for the future.
The following day we laid flowers at the crematorium as it was the 12th anniversary since Greg died. We looked at his entry in the Book of Remembrance and "told" him about the engagement, "introduced" Darcy to him and "spoke" of the awful events unravelling in the Ukraine (Greg used to work for the BBC World Service newsroom, so, had he been still alive, this awful story would have preoccupied him at work). It was a tearful visit for us all - even Darcy who would have loved to meet Greg.
Afterwards, I was preparing lunch for us all and managed to slice a huge wedge into my thumb pad instead of an onion. It bled profusely down my thumb, hand and arm and took at least 20 minutes of gripping it tighty to stop the bleeding enough to apply a plaster. It continued to throb all afternoon until Kay took me to the local urgent care centre for it to be examined. Fortunately it didn't require stitches but they put steri-strips on it and bandaged it up again tightly, as it was still bleeding profusely. I have been told to keep the bandage dry and clean for seven days before I even attempt to remove it - even then it won't have healed entirely. I was planning to do a lot of spring gardening this week as the weather was dry (for a change). It looks like that is not possible now, as well as several gym visits I had planned.
For the past four months, I have been sitting on some very exciting news, but I was sworn to secrecy so couldn't tell anyone about it. I say "anyone" but I think I would have not survived four months if I had told absolutely nobody. Instead I told three people, whom I trusted implicitly and I knew they would not be able to spill the news accidentally, so that it got into the wrong hands. But now I can breathe at last and publish the news........
KAY HAS GOT ENGAGED!!
I have known since the end of October, but she didn't, hence the secrecy! At that time her boyfriend (for the sake of this blog and anonymity, let's call him Darcy - for he is indeed appropriately handsome and everything you could wish for, just like Jane Austen's hero character) contacted me and asked if we could meet in secret, when Kay would be not around. Immediately bells starting ringing in my head, but I tried not to get too excited. A few weeks passed and a weekend came in early December, when Kay was up in Yorkshire visiting old uni friends.
Darcy came over to see me on the Saturday evening and looked very nervous. He told me he had been with Kay for six years now, loved Kay very much and couldn't envisage life without her. He wanted to ask me two questions. The first was whether I would be happy if he asked Kay to marry him. I was so touched by his old-fashioned approach of asking me first if I minded. Of course I said YES. The second question was whether I would help him choose the ring. Kay has often given me ideas of what she likes and doesn't like when choosing rings, as recently we had been looking in jewellery shops for me to buy her something to mark her 30th birthday last summer (six months have gone by since July and I still owe her a 30th present). We have often nonchalantly looked at engagement rings in the window as we inevitably passed by them and she had commented on exactly the kind she would like, if ever her relationship with Darcy got to that stage. So I had a pretty good idea and Darcy knew this.
In early January, Darcy and I arranged to meet one day in Hatton Garden in Central London. I had suggested this, as there are not many jewellers locally, and those that exist are often little niche boutiques and therefore the choice is pretty limited. I felt Hatton Garden would swamp us with shops and help us decide. Sure enough, there were zillions of jewellers not just in Hatton Garden street alone but in the labyrinth of backstreets too. If we so much as glanced in a window, someone would come rushing out to accost us, asking what we wanted and invite us inside so that they could show us all they had. We got very good at giving them a put-down and in the end restricted our search to four shops that had received good reviews online.
I had already done my homework beforehand and felt quite the expert, reinforced by the talk the various jewellers trotted out when we sat down. When choosing a diamond, you have to be aware of the four Cs:-