IKEA again.

When we moved here (gawd! - almost seventeen years ago) I nabbed the smaller south-facing bedroom as a study, and took down some top-hinged wall units.  I kept them as floor standing storage for the domestic files, adding castors.  (I also bought a bit of melamine laminate to glue to the top, but measured it too small.  Measure twice, cut once!)  The box moved down when we had the garage converted, but was just a little too narrow for the job - a number of lever arch files had to be shoved to the back.  Not a problem when one was 57 and less arthritic.  Significantly more of a problem for one with shite knees and recent abdominal surgery.

I did a bit of on-line research, and found quite a nice shelf unit, deep enough for said files and wide enough to take them all in one rank.  £170.  The egregious Mr Kamprad’s Billy is too shallow fore and aft for the job, but his successors at IKEA do a satisfactory line called Kallax.  £39.  OK: it meant getting on hands and knees and making with Allen keys, but they now provide a plastic Allen key holder that adds useful leverage.  The new box is made of solid shit, but it does the job, fits the space well, and matches Martyn’s rather more substantial desk.  

The amount I’ve spent at IKEA over the years hardly bears thinking about, though a lot was reimbursed under my expat deals.  So I do IKEA in English, French, Schwyzertüütsch, German, and even a bit of Vlaams.  Much of the stuff from various flats stayed behind in Lagrasse to help buyer Alain get started, and will no doubt have found its way to new homes - or the déchèterie.  Anyway, the non-IKEA storage box on castors is on its way to our local déchèterie tomorrow.

Interesting if grim

Today we went to an inquest.  We discouraged the rest of the family from coming, and of course reported back to them afterwards.  There was little in the day’s business that we didn’t know: we had read the evidential bundle, which the coroner had to read in open court for the record.  The consultant pathologist who did the PM gave evidence by audio link (video having failed), answering questions from the coroner and from Martyn.  That process ruled out any question of foul play or self injury, so if we didn’t find out the precise cause of death, at least it was made clear what it wasn’t.  Open verdict.

We were met when we arrived by two volunteers, Janice and Declan, and one or both of them stayed with us for the best part of an hour, briefing us on procedure, and then just making pleasant conversation, until the case was called on.  The premises were remarkably smart for crown estate, and the coroner was businesslike and polite, if somewhat scripted and impersonal.

The proceedings were held in a newly refitted building in the County Town, where I had been many times before.  There had in the past been a restaurant, bar and hotel rooms, but that must all have come to an end during the pandemic.  I recognised some ornamental iron work on a staircase, but precious little else.  I’d done lots of interviews there of people offering to serve as Magistrates, and attended quite a lot of bench meetings, before govt stopped paying for decent accommodation for such work.

Bitterly cold day, so the overcoats got an outing, but it was brilliantly sunny all day.  The low sun made for difficult driving, but we got home safely enough.  A 57 mile round trip, including feedback to the family, so I guess I’m recovering.

Meanwhile, back at Forges-l’Evêque we have been doing household stuff to keep our minds off it.  The twin beds in the guest room are twinned again and various sets of unused bedding, curtains, surplus bedside lamps and the rest are now cluttering up the Hospice shop rather than our wardrobes and airing cupboard.  Sandra, meanwhile, is disposing of the late Michael’s clothing, much either unused or hardly used.  So we each have a couple of lambswool pullovers - and I shall next get on line and order more moth discouragement.

And in the wider world, HMG’s plans to send asylum seekers to Rwanda looks somewhat imperilled: two Tory vice-chairs have resigned because their agenda is not being adopted.  It also emerges that the UK has allowed asylum applications from people fleeing persecution in the supposedly safe country to which HMG wants to send applicants for ‘processing’.  Wot wiv Trump looking like heading for power again, and Putin also heading for re-election by a marginally less transparent process, I again feel grateful to be old and childless.

One year on

It was on Friday 13 January last year that I took my symptoms to see the doctor.  He didn’t give me a diagnosis there and then, but launched the process.  A couple of weeks later a colonoscopy confirmed what I thought.  Unfortunately, it also provoked serious bleeding, then a ride in an ambulance and a few nights in hospital.  Thank goodness Martyn was at home to see me pass out.  The ensuing year has been one hospital visit after another - well over 30 - and another stay of a week or so after surgery in September.

Maybe no surprise that I didn’t feel like making marmalade last year.  Back on course this year: the batch in the photo is now made and in its jars, having set well, and the electrical contraptions are back in the cupboard.  Batch 2 soon followed, so with luck we won’t have to resort to the shop-bought variety, or the half-way house of cans of prepared Seville oranges.

On Thursday evening we went with Sandra to choral evensong at Rochester cathedral.  She and the late Michael had endowed that evening’s music, and the service was pretty well attended.  I’m not interested in the liturgy, but the choir was very good, and the organ, well, very English.  We repaired afterwards to a nearby fish restaurant, where the food was good, the ambiance suitable for conversation and the service prompt, if largely charm-free.  An eyebrow rose slightly on finding an automatic 12.5% service charge on the bill.  In the circumstances I would have tipped a bit less.  But a decent meal in the best company is already worth a lot.

Here’s hoping….

 ….that 2024 will be better than the year just gone.  The Christmas decorations and cards came down today, which is always sad, but it has been lovely to be surrounded by the good wishes of all our friends, and they remain even though the cards are in the recycling box.

We kicked off the year with a lunch party, as heralded in my last blog.  Thoroughly enjoyable day in good company, but I have to admit that the preparations, though pretty simple, were quite tiring.  But it was lovely to socialise, and Christine’s light chocolate gateau was superb.  The chicken casserole was its predictable success: Martyn had bravely boned all the chicken thighs, and the stock we’d made with the bones helped make it that bit more wholesome.  Reliable BBC recipe.

I think I need to give myself a little more time to get my strength back bit by bit.  Annie and I walked the circuit to the village and back yesterday.  We did the one-mile route, and I found the mild gradient on the way back just a bit testing.  

Train services are still up the spout.  Martyn had to go to Tonbridge to collect Annie on Tuesday, and we’d to take her back there this morning.  Evidently there has been a land slip at Robertsbridge - hardly surprising given the rain of recent weeks.  Glad I’m no longer commuting to the smoke!

For the last few days we’ve had a mistle thrush serenading us from a tree at the top of the garden.  He’s a bit secretive, so I had to identify him from his song with the help of the RSPB’s excellent web site.  We’re seeing a bit more of the small birds too: blue tits at the feeders, plus the occasional robin - I saw one having a fight with a dunnock just outside the window a few days ago.  The blackbirds are much in evidence, as are the usual wood pigeons, magpies and crows.

The mild weather has given the garden a boost.  We have a blue hebe in flower, not far from a rather sulky winter jasmine, and the clematis Freckles is flowering well again.  (Must get another for the back fence.)  Bulbs are coming along well, and there are some promising buds on the camellias, one of which has sulked for the past few years.  Hoping for the best.

Another one bites the dust

 For annual ramblings, please scroll down to the 2 December entry

It should surprise no one that we are glad to see the back of 2023, though my health issues brought me into contact with a whole lot of thoroughly likeable and very caring people: it’s an ill wind, eh?

We’ve had a good time over the festives in our elderly way.  As planned, Martyn’s sister Sandra spent Christmas Day with us and stayed overnight, and we had a splendid lunch outing a couple of days ago, visiting our friends Claire and Richard and their kids, not far from where we used to live.  Kids: Steph and David have turned out to be charming and responsible adults approaching middle age…

I suspect we’ll see the new year in through closed eyelids.  We’re looking forward to welcoming Annie on 2 Jan, and have invited friends Chris and Jon to lunch as well: the time-honoured chicken casserole, I think: never a bad idea when we’re at the mercy of the train timetable.  We had hoped Annie’s brother Terry would join us, but he’ll be on babysitting duties.

The remarkably mild weather is kicking a lot of stuff into growth.  Lots of daffodils and snowdrops are poking through, and I see new shoots on at least one of the roses.  I wouldn’t normally prune them just yet, but may need to.  Similarly, the hellebores are putting up new growth, so it’s time the manky old foliage was hacked down.  Mild, sure: but the winds have been anything but.  I fished the barbecue cover out of the pond this morning, and it has already blown away from where I hung it out to dry.  It’ll get wetter again in no time, so it can lie where it fell for the moment.  And we’ll see whither it has flown tomorrow.

Gearing up for the festives

Bird and bacon in fridge, sprouts prepared, last Bramley apple picked to grate and add to the stuffing.  Fortnums’ Christmas pudding and Martyn’s ditto cake waiting in the wings, cheeseboard worked out, bread baked.  For the longer term, the remaining bulbs are at last planted out, so we hope we have some spring colour to look forward to - with luck, the squirrels will already have stashed enough acorns.  For the short term, tonight’s meatballs are made and chilling: enough for two meals, so we’ll have a change from leftovers later in the week.  Fairly easy day tomorrow: just the mince pies to make and the pigs in blankets and stuffing to prepare.  So that just leaves the final Christmas Day veggie prep and timetabling.  We’ll have our Christmas dinner in the evening, so have time to get stuff ready at leisure in the afternoon.  Famous last words.

We’re looking forward to hosting Martyn’s sister Sandra on Christmas Day, and have persuaded her to stay the night, so she doesn’t need to drive home in the dark.  We shouldn’t be so patronising: she has recently done a tour of visits in the Cotswolds and the Wye Valley, so when it comes to driving distances, she’s made of sterner stuff than us.  

Talking of motorised transport, Egg2 has sailed through its thirteenth MoT with - as usual - not so much as an advisory.  Given the tiny mileage it does, the main risk is of tyres, bushes etc going brittle (Martyn replaced a couple of rather cracked tyres last year).  Unfortunately our rescue service doesn’t cover vehicles over 16 years old, so we’ll have to do some shopping round next year.  Said service having refused to turn out when I couldn’t open the fuel filler cap (it was presumably sulking at being ignored for so long) I’m tempted to look elsewhere.  My bus passed the 25000 mark this week after a mere 7 years and a couple of months.  My daily hospital visits earlier in the year added an unusual extra thousand miles or so, but it still did only about 3000 miles between MoTs.  Rather more than four times what Egg2 did.

How I love banks

For annual ramblings, please scroll down to the 2 December entry 

I really am not good at choosing banks.  I took fright at reports that the bank where I kept some holiday euros was in trouble, and at the beginning of last month went to the branch (remember those?) to close the accounts.  Imagine my joy today when, while queuing to pay at Fortnums, the phone pinged with a message announcing that I was overdrawn at said bank.  Quite a lot of Vivaldi-on-hold later, I’m assured that the accounts are now closed, and that the charge that led to the purported overdraft has been waived.  Goodness knows what this does for my credit rating, but since I don’t do credit, I shan’t be losing sleep on that account.  [Later: the following day brought two more peremptory text messages…]

The Christmas cards are starting to trickle in.  I love hearing from family and friends at any time of year, but the many greetings at this season make me feel surrounded by good will.  We brought down the Christmas tree from the attic yesterday, together with the electric candle arches.  I encountered the latter for the first time in 1989 in Sweden, thinking them rather charming and understated, and so went into NK near the main station in Stockholm and treated myself to one.  I got another in IKEA some years later, so our front windows are suitably adorned.

We hesitated about decorating the house so soon after Tim’s funeral, but on balance felt both that we needed cheering up, and also that Tim, that kindest of souls, would not wish us to brood.  His funeral last week was a very emotional affair.  Some find this helpful.  Not I: I’ve pretty much decided that I don’t want a funeral. 

The Egg is due for its MoT (annual inspection) so Martyn booked it in for yesterday.  Last year the morning traffic was so bad that we missed the appointment.  This year we set out early, got there in next to no time, and had to repair to a nearby coffee shop till the garage opened.  On arriving, we found that the MoT man had thrown a sickie, so it’s back again next week.  Paciência.