Modest progress

I have to say that I've rather enjoyed being chauffeured around during the last week or so.  The bumf they gave me when I left hospital said not to drive for two weeks, and I reckon I can live with that, having (a) sold the car, and (b) not had to worry about a glass of wine with lunch.  Glad to report that the money from the car sale is safely unter Dach, and that the DVLA has refunded the road tax.  Of the new car, no word since the sighting on the docks at Emden.  When we scrounged our lift home, the salesman told us that they no longer did number plates with the GB flag and the twelve EU stars: Post-referendum, they decided not to re-order the same.  Well, I've found a purveyor of stick-ons, and just hope that we shall remain EU members for as long as I own the car.  After which, I shall continue rhetorically to fly the flag anyway.

Question, cycling child to cycling mother, as I went out to check the mail box just now: 'Mummy, how old do I have to be to get a smart watch?.  The answer petered out after 'They're expensive...'.  Correct answer was, of course, '..when you earn enough to buy one'.  But then, I brought all mine up with realistic expectations.

Nursie pronounced the wounds to the knee healthy when I saw her on Friday, but was surprised at the technicolor bruise.  I gather from other ortho veterans that spectacular bruising is normal, as is the initial anxiety about DVT.  Well, I'm exercising assiduously, and shall put up with the compression stockings for another few days, as instructed. 

Saturday was fine, so we went down to Rye, one of our usual destinations when we feel the need of some fresh sea air.  The William the Conqueror served up a decent lunch, and then we headed along to Dungeness to buy dressed crab, scallops and a couple of fillets of plaice.  First two gone, last-mentioned frozen. 

Our next trip to the seaside will be a sad one.  Barbara's funeral is to be on 7 October (why in the name etc does it take so long hereabouts?).  Reports are of her being found with a cigarette in the ashtray and a part-heard gin and tonic on the table.  There are worse ways to go, eh?