Still here

Martyn’s far from out of the woods with shingles, but with new medication started yesterday, he seems a bit brighter, and in marginally less pain.  Just to complicate things, my joints are being more than usually bolshy.  But we’re both still the right side of the grass, eh?

The bathroom refit is about to move into week six.  The basin and bidet taps supplied are bloody useless, delivering at best an enuretic dribble: they will be replaced, but goodness knows when.  There is still remedial work to be done on the tiling, and the threshold, due for fitting this week, is still missing.  I would normally be willing to make stage payments, but since the twins aren’t asking for any, we ain’t volunteering any.  All that said, we’re content with the sparky’s work (though less so with his loud voice and tedious stories) and the painter seems to know what he’s doing.  He’s due to come and paint the bathroom door next week, and we’ve told him the can of purple is ready and waiting.

As for le monde politique, we were not unhappy to see the tories pulverised in yesterday’s by-elections.  The Rt Hon The First Lord of the Treasury seems determined to cling to power, and we’re ambivalent about that.  The longer he hangs on, the more likely it is that his party will be annihilated in 2024.  And that would at least give Labour time to get its slack arse into gear.  But what damage can these fools do in the meantime?  A parliamentary vote of no confidence in HMG is unthinkable given the current majority, so any early change must be in the hands of the men in the grey suits.  Are there any left?

Pour passer aux choses sérieuses, the tomatoes are cropping like mad, so we’ve had some on a pizza, more on bruschette (for which I’ve baked a handful of bâtards - half-baguettes) and more went into a bolognese this week for cannelloni and a cottage pie.  I passed on a bag of fruit to neighbours the other day.  The garden is looking good, but is quite demanding: the roses need daily dead-heading, and I’m tackling the iris sibirica a little at a time.  The box is growing back from the stumps, but since I’ve been seeing the moths in the garden, we’re determined to get the plants grubbed out.  I took seed from the chives a couple of days ago, so shall get some new plants started.  We’ll probably turn out a first bag of spuds in a day or two: the foliage is stifling the onions in the raised bed.  And there are bits of the garden that are gagging for the spent compost, to which I’ll add a good dollop of blood, fish and bone.

I watched a YouTube video yesterday of a plainly dreadful bus journey from Victoria coach station to Glasgow.  Awful though much of it was, what really caught my eye was the translation of ‘Departures’ into German: Abflüge.  This can only mean flight departures, so unless they’ve re-invented the Fairey Rotodyne, their signage looks ignorant and silly.  Suitable comment left on the TfL web site.  Watch this space.

Post hoc ergo propter hoc?

 A few days after our trip to London, Martyn developed pain and a rash.  By Bank Holiday Thursday it was really starting to trouble him, and attempts to contact NHS 111 were getting nowhere.  Rather than face our local A&E, I marched him down to a nearby minor injuries clinic in the next county.  OK, it wasn’t an injury, but my thinking was that a medic presented with the symptoms could hardly refuse to diagnose.  He was in and out again in 25 minutes.  Shingles confirmed, we spent another hour waiting for 111 to answer, and longer waiting for a call from a 111 GP to prescribe.  On Friday I collected a course of antivirals which, six days later, have done nothing to help.  After a chat with the pharmacist, who said ‘speak to the doctor’, I went and planted myself at the reception desk of our local practice until the receptionist agreed, without too much aggro, to speak to the GP.  The latter, bless her cotton socks, called in the early afternoon, and asked for photographs.  On receipt of same, she called again, saying ‘oh, you poor thing!’ and prescribed something to ease the pain and help him sleep.  

I don’t think we can blame the shingles on exposure to the Great Unwashed last Saturday, since it’s a virus that lies dormant, I think, following chickenpox - but something must have jolted it into action.  Martyn isn’t old enough yet to qualify for a shingles jab, but once he’s recovered, I think we’ll be agitating for one, since a couple of people we know who have had shingles have had it multiple times.  I had my jab last year, and hope it’s more effective than the anti-virals.

Meanwhile, the bathroom refit continues apace.  The tiler did a mediocre job, and had to be brought back to put some plastic beading over the jagged edge he had left by the door.  It looks better, but amateurish.  The prime contractor is not happy, and neither are we.  The new wash basin was delivered with a socking great chip out of one corner, and will be replaced in due course.  The taps have not been delivered, so the temporarily fitted basin has a temporary tap.  The bidet continues to ornament the garage until a suitable tap arrives.  But we have a functioning WC and shower.  It’s the turn of the sparky tomorrow, and, we think, the painter and maybe the chippy on Saturday.  So by some time in week 4, we may see an end to the fun and games.

The garden remains a comfort.  Though the irises are coming to the end of their all too short flowering season, the roses and penstemons are coming into flower.  The indoor tomatoes are starting to deliver ripe fruit, and the numerous cuttings are potted up and coming along nicely out on the terrace.  I’ve done some weeding in the front garden (which probably accounts for the protest from the knees).  Out at the bird feeders it seems to be the turn of the corvids.  We have magpie chicks in the trees in next door’s garden, and jays and jackdaws are demolishing the seed and fat balls in the feeders.  We’re seeing less of the blue tits, so guess their chicks must have fledged.  We’re hearing a chiffchaff somewhere nearby, and our local blackbird is in fine voice too.  From an indecent hour.