Glasgow Part 3

Sadly we didn't have enough time to explore all the street art in Glasgow of which there is an enormous number of exhibits on the side of buildings, but one I saw really impressed me. I had mentioned in my previous post about St Mungo being the patron saint of Glasgow and his connection to the robin. This mural was not far from the cathedral and Necropolis.  If you zoom in, you can see the amazing detail of his beard, skin and the robin's feathers.

On our third day, we visited the Botanic gardens across the road from our hotel. It was arguably every bit as good as London's Kew Gardens and had an amazing variety of plants in the glass houses. We went a bit crazy taking lots of photos!! These are just a few!!

After lunch, we went on to visit the university or I should say universities, as there are three. The University of Glasgow belongs to the Russell group and is the more traditional university founded in 1451. Then there is the University of Strathclyde which is more like the old polytechnics used to be with a technological, business and industrial slant and then the Glasgow Caledonian University which focuses on career-oriented study. It explains why the streets are teeming with students and the town has a lively feel, bustling with many cafes and restaurants.

The University of Glasgow is a mixture of old and modern buildings, as you might expect, the oldest being Victorian circa 1870 which is quite impressive.

Kay said with a sigh, she wished she'd have studied medicine here, as she did not have too good a time at the Yorkshire uni she went to. I know that period of time was quite painful for her, as she was heavily bullied for being a southerner by a Liverpool girl sharing her first year flat - a psychology student at that, who probably knew very well what mental harm she was inflicting.  I too wished Kay had gone to Glasgow. Water under the bridge now, but it did make her uni years very unhappy at the time.

Part of the Glasgow university housed the Hunterian Museum - affiliated to the one in London in that the Glasgow one was named after William Hunter a royal physician in the 1700s and  the London one after his younger brother John Hunter a pioneering surgeon. It houses many medical anatomical specimens as well as protypes of medical equipment, such as the first X-ray and ultrasound machines, which of course was of extreme interest to Kay.

Our final day, after checking out of the hotel was spent walking to Sauchiehall Street - a famous street name imprinted in my brain as being associated with Glasgow. It turned out to be less of interest than my brain had told me, but nevertheless worth eliminating.  We ended up seeing the Charles Rennie Mackintosh tearooms, before returning to collect our suitcases from the hotel and catching the 15:38 train back to London.

Charles Rennie MacKintosh tearoom

The five hour journey back seemed daunting, but the time went very quickly as we passed mountains and hills through the lake District and snatched some sleep too. Arriving back at Euston at 20:14, we quickly made our way through the London Underground and homewards, where Kay's husband was waiting in his car at the station to drop me off at home. 

Glasgow part 2

On Tuesday we got the subway - a simple ring of stations that cover the north and south of the city - and headed for the Cathedral. Built in the 12th century,  it is Scotland's finest example of a medieval cathedral and survived the Reformation. It is the oldest building in Glasgow. It was dedicated to St Mungo, the patron saint of Glasgow.

Wandering around the cathedral and indeed elsewhere in Glasgow you are confronted by four things which can be summed up by this poem...

Here is the bird that never flew
Here is the tree that never grew
Here is the bell that never rang
Here is the fish that never swam

The verse refers to the following:

• The Bird: Mungo restored life to a robin that had been killed by some of his classmates. 
• The Tree: Mungo had been left in charge of a fire in Saint Serf's monastery. He fell asleep and the fire went out. Taking a hazel branch, he restarted the fire.
• The Bell: the bell is thought to have been brought by Mungo from Rome. It was said to have been used in services and to mourn the dead. 
• The Fish: refers to the story about Queen Languoreth of Strathclyde who was suspected of infidelity by her husband. King Riderch demanded to see her ring, which he claimed she had given to her lover. In reality the King had thrown it into the River Clyde. Faced with execution she appealed for help to Mungo, who ordered a messenger to catch a fish in the river. On opening the fish, the ring was miraculously found inside, which allowed the Queen to clear her name. 

Once you know all of the above, you see those four symbols everywhere in Glasgow. I even bought a fridge magnet to remind me of it once home.

Meanwhile back to the cathedral... here are some pictures to give you an idea of the size and style.

Of course, more scaffolding!

This interesting needlework inside the cathedral caught my eye. Read it as spelled and you can almost hear the Scottish accent.

Next to the cathedral is the Necropolis. It is a Victorian graveyard officially opened in 1833 and is the burial ground for around 50,000 Glasgow graves with 3,500 monuments. Rich industrial entrepreneurs of Glasgow wanted to proclaim their wealth even in death and the graves compete to be the biggest. They can be seen from far off and are amazing the closer you get.

This one is clearly for a Scottish actor, the inscription is below

Glasgow Part 1

I've just returned from a trip to Glasgow this week.  Kay had a few days off and wanted to visit a junior doctor friend she had made about nine years ago. This friend now lives in Glasgow and has a young baby. Kay invited me to go along on the trip with her and I agreed, as I had never visited Glasgow before. 

Last Sunday evening we caught the night sleeper from London Euston station and that was an experience in itself and one I NEVER EVER want to do again, I might add. Originally I had thought it would be unusual and exciting to sleep on a train. We arrived at London Euston station at 22.30 and boarded our cabin. To say it was cramped is an understatement, but given that we were to be asleep for the whole journey, it didn't really matter. The gap between the bed and the wall on the other side was about 60 cm wide!

We did have to share a toilet with 3 other cabins, but only needed it once, so it was not worth paying an extra £70 for the privilege of a cabin with our own toilet. We settled into our night clothes and the train pulled away from the station at 23:30. We set our alarms for 07:00 the next morning as we were due to arrive in Glasgow at 07:30. Now to sleep. And therein lay the problem. Kay offered to take the top bunk and I took the bottom bunk. Pretty soon, the train started to rock sideways and I began to feel very seasick - something I have NEVER felt even on a very rough sea crossing. At times, I also got the sensation too that I was being dropped from a height, so that my stomach lurched when I landed flat again. I could also feel the vibration of the train's wheels grinding beneath me. Suffice to say, I hardly slept at all. I was aware at times that the train had stopped, maybe at signals or at a station - although no stops were scheduled. Then it would speed on, again rocking violently as it did so. At some point into the wee small hours of the morning, I must have finally drifted off to sleep only to be nudged awake by Kay at 06:20. Apparently there had been a very faint announcement that the train was making an emergency stop at Motherwell and we would all have to vacate the train in the next ten minutes. I scrambled out of bed, quickly threw clothes on in the very narrow space next to the bed and repacked my suitcase. Five minutes later, the train pulled into Motherwell and there was an exodus of passengers pouring onto the platform. I accosted one of the staff and was told the reason for this was front engine failure. Trust my luck! We were then told to pick up a commuter train on another platform, which involved heaving cases up many many stairs, across a bridge and down again. The commuter train was packed but we managed to get a seat unlike so many others who boarded it along the route to Glasgow. We arrived in Glasgow much later than scheduled and, as Kay was meeting her friend at 09:30, we decided to get a taxi to the hotel and grab a quick breakfast before making our way to the Kelvingrove Museum, where we were meeting the friend. 

Unfortunately wherever I seem to go these days, the important sights are covered by scaffolding - even when I visited the Brandenburg gate in Berlin a few years ago!!

Kelvingrove Museum

Kay went off with her friend and I wandered round the museum which was extremely interesting. I'd describe it as a cross between London's National Gallery, Natural History Museum, British Museum and V&A museum all in one. There was just so much to see. Here are a few pictures to give you a rough idea.

Stags clashing antlers during the rutting season

Egyptian sarcophagus

entrance vestibule with amazing organ - there was a half-hour organ recital at 1pm

Painting of Balmoral Castle {in the centre} by Joseph Adam

I met up with Kay and her friend for lunch in the museum, whereupon the friend had to leave, as she is expecting her second baby and was having a five-month scan that afternoon. Kay and I decided to continue going round more of the museum, but by 4pm we had hit the wall, so to speak, and decided to get back to the hotel for supper and an early night.

The hotel was situated in the West End of Glasgow opposite the Botanic Gardens and in an area where the two main universities are situated. Consequently the area was teeming with students, cafes and restaurants and was very safe to walk in at night. After supper at one of the local Italian restaurants, we headed for an early night to compensate for lack of sleep the night before.

More next week!

Foodbank

Not very far from me is a foodbank where I volunteer. It is run by a church and in the church. It apparently started about 10 years ago when a homeless person knocked on the vicar's door and asked if he had any spare food. The vicar handed some tinned food over and the  following night, two people stood at the door. The numbers have swelled now to over 400 families per week and has become a highly organised operation.

I joined in 2018, after the death of my mother, when I was seeking something useful to do with my spare time. Even back then, it was still relatively new and not as complicated as it has since become. It opens three times a week (Tuesdays, Fridays and Saturdays) to hand out bags of food, but back then it had a shower, a washing machine, a sewing machinist to mend clothes, and advice on housing and benefits. On a Friday there is a two-course sit-down cooked meal for guests to eat and a cafe on all three days providing a hot drink and a piece of cake.

When Covid came along, the operation changed. Instead of guests coming into the church and being handed the food on more or less a conveyor belt system, the guests had to queue outside in all weathers and the volunteers had to stand outside (in all weathers) to hand out the bags. This was an attempt to avoid cross-infection of Covid. It has remained to this day that food is handed out outside. It gives a much bigger area inside the church hall to provide the sit-down meals. The shower and washing machine were not available during Covid and remain unused to this day. The advice on housing/benefits remains as does a counsellor for mental health. Some cannot read or write so there is help in filling in forms for council housing or utilities etc. For a while I took over the sewing machine duties, mending tears, unravelled seams or sewing on a button, but after a long while, I found there was little uptake for this and so went back to the food side of things.

Each guest gets a basic bag containing at least 5 tins (soup, tomatoes, baked beans, vegetables and meat/fish) plus a litre of milk and a toilet roll. In addition they  will also get extras of whatever we have in stock that week - maybe pasta or rice or tea or biscuits or shower gel. They also get to pick for themselves from crates of bread,  vegetables and fruit donated by supermarkets. These latter items are not always at their best but nevertheless can be used to make soup or stews. People with children get extra items - more pasta, biscuits, fruit juice, cereal and extra tins. In addition we provide cat and dog food, where available and sanitary ware for women and nappies for babies. Everyone can request extras such as coffee or sugar or washing up liquid or washing powder, if we have them in stock. Most of them stay for the sit-down cooked meal and get to chat to one another.

All guests must register with us on a computer system and only need written proof of address and number of children. No other questions are asked. We recently had to ask for proof of address as some guests were coming from as far afield as other parts of London where they have their own foodbanks. Proof of number of children was to allow us to give out extras to them. They can only visit us once a week, so the computerised registration on arrival each week checks that they have only had the one visit that week.

Demand has far outreached supply - more people needing foodbanks as opposed to less donations during the cost of living crisis. To solve this problem, the church has now been running a charity shop for the last two years in the High Street. It sells clothes, toys, books, ornaments - the usual charity shop stuff - and any profit is ploughed back into the foodbank to buy food in bulk. This has helped no end to keep the stocks high. I also help out in the shop from time to time, either on the till or in the backroom sorting clothing donations and pricing them up. The foodbank has become a huge part of my life. Our local Member of Parliament has taken a very strong interest in the foodbank and I have met him 3 times now, on one occasion when he invited us up to the House of Commons to have a look round and then afterwards discuss the foodbank in one of the parliament committee rooms upstairs.

I help out on a Friday at the foodbank itself and there are usually at least 100 people queuing for over an hour to be served. Since Covid, the numbers have swelled and the cost of living has seen numbers rise even more. The guests are mixed. Some are homeless and sofa-surfing; some are pensioners trying to survive on a basic pension; some lost their jobs during Covid; and others are large families. The latter category intrigues me. There are several women who have six children each and, because of this, can claim a lot of food. They go out with multiple heavy bags groaning with food. They are often very cheeky, taking lots of food out of the returns box, when they are only entitled to swap one item. Or they will snatch more sanitary ware when they think our back is turned. I have seen them getting into their large cars and it does make me wonder if they are taking us for a joke. Many have perfectly manicured nails done in a nail salon (these are not cheap) or tattoos. It does make you wonder about their priorities. How my war-time parents and grandparents would have loved to have a foodbank to go to but made do with no help whatsoever!

Recently a middle-aged woman and her elderly mother took several bags for their family, asked me to help them carry it to their car and, when I got there, it was an enormous one-year old 4x4 MG car rather like this one.

It does make me beg the question whether the foodbank is reaching the wrong people and whether there are some taking us for a laugh. Apart from demanding to see their bank statements, we have to go on trust that they are desperate, but I do sometimes wonder.

Alcoholic Daze - Chapter 7

At this point, nobody else knew about his addiction. There were times, when I wanted to share the burden with someone, but I kept hoping, things would change, he would see sense and get better. After all he is an intelligent man, capable of reasoning and logic - he had had a high-status media job both abroad and in London. Surely he would be able to get to grips with this problem. There was of course also the feeling of shame and the guilt that I was somehow responsible for this. Had I said or done something that had made him sink into this spiral of depression, illness and addiction? Should I have noticed sooner? If people commented on how dreadful he looked, I passed it off as being a result of his diabetes. But some people had relatives who were suffering from diabetes too and they would further cross-examine me with raised eyebrows about what medication he was on and what diet, so I guessed they were not all that convinced by my feeble excuses. It made me uncomfortable and I would try to change the subject.

In the midst of all this, there is one episode which sticks in my mind as the most embarrassing of all. We had been staying for a week in August with my mother and on one particularly hot day Greg, Kay and I had met up with some close friends who live nearby for an afternoon picnic at an Air Show. As we sat, watching the aeroplanes doing their stunts above us, we chatted, ate sandwiches and drank a little wine - we had bought a bottle and they had bought a bottle. However, three of us shared one bottle between us, but Greg had the other bottle all to himself. My daughter, as always, drank water. Granted the weather was extremely hot, but red wine is not exactly the ideal liquid to quench your thirst. Greg declined any of the food and just drank. Our friends had to get back home early, but Greg, Kay and I stayed on to wait for a spectacular firework display that was planned for 10 pm that evening. During the wait, Greg produced a bottle of whisky from his pocket and started to work his way through that too. He was getting argumentative and behaving oddly, even for him. The place meanwhile filled up with thousands of spectators who had come from far and wide just to see the fireworks alone, as the event happens every year and is renowned. It was so crowded there was hardly any space between the groups of people sitting cross-legged on the ground.

The first rocket flew into the air on schedule at 10 pm and those that followed over the next thirty minutes were truly spectacular, but I could not give them my full concentration as Greg was shouting rather loudly that it was a load of old rubbish. Then he started to throw small stones in front of him, narrowly missing a small child sitting a few feet away from us. The father turned round as if to say something and then thought better of it. Meanwhile. I was wishing the ground would open up and swallow me. As the firework display reached its closing climax to the strains of Handel's Music for the Royal Fireworks, everyone clapped, cheered and then started to disperse. Imagine about ten thousand people all standing up at once and wanting to make for the same exit. Kay and I sprang to our feet, as we did not want to be crushed in the stampede. Greg however remained seated on the ground. He tried to get up but was obviously having difficulty. He pushed up with his arms but his bottom half seemed not to be in the slightest bit involved. He yelled at me to help him up and I took his hand and pulled him up, but there seemed to be absolutely no strength in his legs and he toppled down again. A man passing by approached him and said "Let me help you, mate" and pulled Greg to his feet once more. As soon as the man let go his hand, Greg toppled yet again to the ground. He sort of fell backwards full length like a domino, as if his feet were glued to the ground, and banged his head. By now a small crowd, originally on their way to the exit but sensing the entertainment was not quite over, was gathering and found it quite amusing to watch.

Kay was by now in tears with embarrassment. I on the other hand somehow managed to beam myself to another imaginary level where I just blanked the people out and concentrated on getting Greg to stand. He stood and toppled over twice more domino-style. A few more people offered to help but Greg shouted at them to leave him alone and at me to stop mucking about and get him upright. By now I did notice that the crowd was tittering and nudging one another. Kay was really upset by now and said she would go in search of the several ambulance crews who were situated at the exit as they normally are at that sort of crowd gathering. She was off before I could stop her. In my heart I knew we needed help, but Greg was protesting loudly that she should not go. She returned within minutes pursued by two paramedics. As soon as they smelled the alcohol on him and ascertained there was nothing else wrong with him, they were very offhand. I can't say as I blame them. In all fairness, they did offer to take him to Accident and Emergency at the local hospital, but Greg refused to go. In that case, they said they were unable to get us back to my mother's house, as they were not a taxi service. They instead notified the police, who were also well represented at this event, and said the police would come shortly to take us in a car back to my mother's house. I felt sick. What on earth would my mother think or say, when we all rolled up in a police car? My mother, bless her, has just the tiniest bit of Hyacinth Bucket about her and I could imagine that she would never live it down amongst the neighbours. I was embarrassed for her. I was embarrassed for my daughter. Hell, I was embarrassed for me. I too was having a Hyacinth-Bucket-moment.

Fortunately when the policewoman arrived, she was most adamant that the police were far too busy to take us home either and she would call for a taxi. She first helped me get Greg onto a bench and then she made a radio call, but she did warn us that nobody might turn up, as, believe it or not, taxi drivers are none too keen on ferrying drunks about either, particularly if it involves cleaning up the seats afterwards. We did wait a while.... about half an hour, I think.... by which time Greg had regained some feeling in his legs. We concluded the taxi was never going to come and we managed to walk albeit very slowly the half mile home, Kay and I supporting Greg between us. It took us an hour to walk what would normally have taken us ten minutes. We then made a charade of excuses to my mother, who had waited up for us, as to why we were over two hours late getting back to her and we carried on as if nothing were wrong. However Kay and I felt in a right state and it took ages to get off to sleep that night, replaying the scene over and over again in our heads, while Greg slept like a proverbial baby.

Bank Holiday from Hell

The recent bank holiday weekend was one I would not care to repeat. It was full of bad news. 

It started on the Saturday morning, when my daughter Kay rang me to say she had had an accident at work the day before.  Two people (one being my daughter) were coming in opposite directions along two separate corridors that meet at right angles. At the right angle, they swerved violently to avoid one another. Fortunately my daughter was not injured, but the other person swerved and fell rather dramatically, maybe dislocating their shoulder or breaking their arm. They were screaming in agony. My daughter with others helped scoop her up on a trolley and took her to A&E, whereupon she had to leave her, as she was already late for a meeting with her consutant boss. My daughter then met up with her consultant boss and promptly burst into tears - she always feels guilty, even if it is not her fault. She has been plagued with guilt ever since, even though witnesses to the accident said the other person was looking behind them, just as they approached that rightangle, so there is no way my daughter should blame herself.

The second piece of news involved G, a very dear friend of mine who was diagnosed with leukaemia two years ago in September and given a rough two-year life sentence. He texted to say he had been taken into hospital with shortness of breath and fluid on both lungs, as well as blood results getting worse. I am rooting for him to get better.

The third piece of news, also on Saturday was that my 93-year-old neighbour was taken into hospital again, only having been discharged a month ago, as she had a suspected deep vein thrombosis on her leg. She was in hospital all day for tests and x-rays. She was then sent home by ambulance transport at 1 am in the middle of the night. Who sends home in the middle of the night a 93-year-old who lives alone? I've been popping in to do more odd jobs for her. She remains amazing given her age and frailty.

The final piece of news on Sunday morning was that one of my birthday girl group - namely 91-year-old J - who was admitted to hospital last week, having slipped in the shower and banged her head, had taken a turn for the worst. She had aspirated overnight and now had pneumonia to add to the list. Sadly she died on Sunday afternoon.

I spent all weekend on my own, so it was hard to digest all that sad information happening all at once.

Cool Cat

It's certainly been much cooler this week and awoken me from the stupour caused by too many tropical heatwaves this summer. I  felt galvanised into doing more, I even lugged the vacuum cleaner up 5 flights of stairs to hoover the six levels of the house. I haven't felt like doing that in weeks. I also attempted some ironing and, as I mentioned last week have been doing a lot involving visiting people. This week, I went to a coffee afternoon with someone I haven't seen in years, did a charity shop shift, went on a day-trip to Christchurch in Dorset and saw the ballet Giselle with my choir friends. All of that as well as continuing to do a few chores for my 93-year-old neighbour. I expect we'll all be moaning about the rain now, although I must admit it is very much welcome, as a lot of my garden plants have been flagging. I think I am at last a cool cat.

Busy bee

There are many times when, as a widow, I spend a lot of time on my own, talking to the wall, watching far too much TV and not seeing a soul. But this last week has been very busy with a lot of people contact.

To start with, one of the neighbours aged 93 in my cul-de-sac, whom I have known for over 30 years, was recently discharged from hospital, having had a fall and over three weeks' rehabilitation to get her walking and back to semi-normal. We have always looked after one another's houses when one of us has been on holiday, so have one another's house keys, so I have been on-call to tend to her every need when the carers couldn't help. (The visiting carers come three times a day but can only stay about 15 minutes, so don't have time to cook a meal or do much with her other than help her with her rehab exercises.) She is managing to do her own meals and get dressed/undressed on her own, but, as she is poorly sighted, she has not yet risked going upstairs to bed and sleeps in the downstairs reclining chair. I have been doing errands like bringing clothes down for her, hanging washing and helping her on the computer with her online food deliveries, as she cannot see the keyboard very well. I have sat with her a few hours several times this last 2 weeks to just chat, as her step-children have been away on a three-week holiday. They return today, so hopefully my duties will become less.

On Thursday night, I went out with my choir girl friends, whom I haven't seen in weeks as our choir is on its summer recess. We had a lovely Italian meal in our local High Street and chatted until nearly midnight. It was so good to catch up with their news. 

Then on Friday, I had a shift at our local foodbank and afterwards our team, as usual, went for coffee and cakes afterwards at a local café to chat and make plans for a day-trip we are all doing next week to visit an old team member who has moved to Christchurch in Dorset. After that I scurried home as there was an informal gathering on our communal lawn to welcome in a new neighbour who moved in 7 days ago. It was good getting to know her, as well as catching up with some of the existing neighbours.

Today I am doing an afternoon shift at our local park Information Centre. I am in charge of the rota and had recently advertised on Facebook for new volunteers to come forward. Six new people had responded and I am holding an induction session this afternoon to tell them a bit more about the volunteering role and sign them up officially, if I haven't scared them off in the process. 

Next week looks busy too.... a shift in the Foodbank charity shop on Wednesday, the trip to Christchurch on Thursday and then my choir friends and I are going to see the ballet Giselle on Friday evening. 

I've hardly had 5 minutes on my own, so the wall must have felt very lonely without me talking to it!

Back to roots

A few weeks ago, I had a dental check-up and my dentist was horrified to discover from the x-ray that I had an enormous hole in the side of one of my bottom back molar teeth right at gum level. In the photo above, you can just make out the hole at gum level, where the arrow points to. It begs the question why she had not discovered it before, considering I have annual check-ups usually with an x-ray. Either she had missed it before or it had grown impressively since the last check-up. She was so horrified at the size of the hole that she said her opinion was it would have to be extracted. That would be the third tooth I would have lost in as many years. She was surprised it was causing me no pain. She did mention it might be saved by having root canal work done on it, where they remove the pulp in the tooth and fill it to avoid infection. She would need to first consult her endodontist for their opinion. Unfortunately her endodontist recommended extraction too.

Now at the mention of root canals and endodontists, I informed her that my son-in-law, Darcy,  is an endodontist and I would consult him. His opinion was that he thought the tooth could be saved with root canal work and that my dentist's endodontist lacked the experience and letters after their name to cope with complex cases, whereas Darcy has been doing it for the last 8 years. Darcy is extremely passionate about his work and had received many prizes for his expertise.

Darcy does not work at one dental practice, as no one place has enough customers requiring root canal work for five full days a week, so he works at many practices, maybe one day a week or even one day every two weeks in a wide location of practices. One that he does every week is in Canterbury and he has in the recent past done the boss a favour by doing a root canal procedure on the boss' mum for no charge at all. (Root canals can cost anything from about £1,000 or more). So when he offered to try to save my tooth for free, the boss was happy to return the favour. It meant I had to go down to Canterbury and I decided I would make a small holiday out of it by going down to Canterbury the day before and staying overnight in a hotel just round the corner from the dental surgery, so I could easily be there for the 09.30 appointment the next morning. The alternative was getting up at silly o'clock for a hearty breakfast and leaving London at 06.30 to arrive in Canterbury in time. What with the heatwave and the prospect of a three-hour procedure and not being able to eat for a while afterwards, while the swelling settled, it seemed sensible to make life as easy as possible for me.

I know it seems a little weird having your son-in-law peering into your mouth and doing a procedure, but if it saved the tooth and avoided an extraction, it was worth a try. And it's for free!

I duly travelled down by train to Canterbury on Thursday and tried to do a bit of sightseeing, but it was way too hot and the town was full of raucous teenagers celebrating or commiserating their A-level results.  After a wander to see some of the sights and the amazing old buildings, I scurried back to my hotel for an early evening meal and an early night.

Entrance to the Cathedral grounds

The next day I met up with my son-in-law who did the three-hour procedure to first fill the hole on the side of my tooth and then drill down the roots to remove the pulp and fill them. It was not helped when, towards the end, the suction machine overheated and refused to work, even with several attempts to restart it, so I had to transfer to another room upstairs for the procedure to be finished. So the tooth is saved and I can't wait to tell my usual dentist - maybe she should employ my son-in-law as her endodontist! 

In other news, in an attempt to help Kay weed her garden earlier this week, I managed to rip half my thumbnail off its bed. Long story, but the pain was indescribable and blood everywhere. Kay helped me clean it up and bandage it. A friend commented the next day whether my tetanus vaccines were up to date. I had to fill in an online form with my GP to ask when the last vaccine was and to my horror it was 2009. Within 2 hours of my online form, I had a text message to attend the surgery within the next 45 minutes before the staff went home to get a tetanus booster. My favourite GP did the vaccination which included diphtheria and polio too so I am covered for at least the next ten years.