Cabin Fever

 Since Saturday I’ve hardly been out of the house. There was a quick and early run to the Spar for our weekly print journalism treat, the Weekend Guardian for people like us, people with log-burning stoves need something to help light our fires. Sorry, re our carbon footprint - I’m not going to be embarrassed about that as I rarely use aeroplanes and Bert never flies anywhere.

On Sunday I was completely confined to quarters. Never put my nose outside the door. Did a lot of housework. Took my daily exercise in the polytunnel as it was really wet and windy.

Monday had me taking a quick run to the Spar for milk and to Boots for my medicine. It’s something I take for arthritis, been taking it for years, even before I fell out of the tree-house, maybe started around the time I was cowped by the pig. I don’t know if it helps but I’d rather not stop just in case it does.

The sore stomach started around lunch-time and got worse and worse. I couldn’t eat, I couldn’t throw up and I couldn’t poo. The pain went into my back. If someone had offered me heroin I would have accepted it gladly – even though I was pretty sure it was just trapped wind. I slept a lot when I could. No-one offered me heroin so I took two dissoluble paracetamol at around 10pm and slept all night. The smart watch recorded a total sleep of 11 hours and 45 minutes for that period.  Crazy dreams.

The bad pain was gone next morning and I did the natural thing. Tummy still felt tender and I had little appetite and I was so tired. Spent the day reading – mainly Jan Carson.

Today I had the cabin fever. I went to Antrim, took Jazzer shopping. Just a few things she said. We breakfasted in Alfie’s, my only concession to my delicate tum was cappuccino rather than an Americano. Afterwards I checked out the charity shop, nice sweater, two mugs and a book with change from a fiver. Then it was Asda, Lidl and Islandbawn Stores. Jazzer’s idea of a few things is very different from mine. In between Lidl and Islandbawn we stopped at Belmont Cemetery for a bit of a walk and to call with friends. Jazzer said hello to her mum and dad, her sister, her brother, her niece and nephew and many friends and neighbours. I said hello to a great-niece, a cousin, an uncle, an old friend and some neighbours from home. There was a funeral taking place while we were there but we kept a respectful distance.

Being nosy, I checked out the funeral when I got home. I had supposed it was for someone who had lived a long life. But it wasn’t. It was for an infant.

The Unforgettable Geoff Kerr

Death Blog

Death Blog

Wasn't this blog once a light-hearted affair? Did I not write of all the amusing things that happened in my life? Do amusing things not happen any more or, if they do, do I barely notice them as I sit here reminiscing about funerals and pondering death?

I dreamed about Pearlie again last night. She stirred from her death bed and I fled her hospital room. Not like real life then for she died at home. I left her scattered with sweets and chocolate. Not like real life for it was me, not Pearlie, who had the extreme sweet tooth.

It's early morning when I wake. Almost the first thought to enter my head. She is gone. Again the familiar feeling of loss, of absence.

I won't pretend. I looked forward to her not being here. Looked ahead to a time when our chief responsibilities would be to each other, no old wifey sucking at our time and our energies with her endless small wants and constant disappointments. And now it is here and it is not what I thought. I never expected to feel the loss so keenly. Three years a full-time carer and now, what now?

A Lighter Look At The Situation

Last Thursday Miss Martha requested we visit her grave. I'd mentioned before that I'd take her some day. As we parked outside Martha began to advise Evie with all the solemnity that a nearly-five can offer.

Now Evie, this is not for fun. We are not going in here to play. We have to be serious for we are going in to visit Pearlie in her grave, not to play!

Evie looked suitably sad and said,

But I want to visit her in her room!

Evie feeling the loss too.

Previously Martha had been asking lots of questions about the burial process and I was answering as best I could as one question led in to another. I think one thing that struck her was that people get buried in perfectly good garments. She might have thought that a shame and a waste for Martha likes clothes. What happened to the clothes led to what happened to bodies and as we entered the gates she asked,

Will she still have her hair?

We visited the grave and some others as well for Martha likes graveyards. Many questions were asked and answered and then, and I'm not sorry to report it, their solemnity lifted and they did play.

Wine & Cemeteries

The Banjos came over on Saturday night. Mrs Banjo brought her first ever wine for racking. It was a raspberry made from Asda's finest frozen fruit. To be honest I wasn't expecting much from it but it is coming along very nicely. A good ruby red colour, clear, tasty and alcoholic. Of course we judged this on the merest sip during the racking process but I will be looking for the recipe. I might need to use frozen fruit as we replaced our raspberry canes this year, and thanks to the very wet Spring they were late in getting into the ground.

Tonight I racked one of my elderflowers and a rhubarb. The elderflower was made from fresh flowers. I'd previously used dried flowers. The flavour is good but it is rather too sweet for my liking. I'll try it again this year but will go easy on the sugar.

Rhubarb. What can I say? It never disappoints me but looking back at my notes I see I was very adventurous with this one. I started it in February 2013 and used a pint of pineapple wine as a starter. Then, racking it in October I seem to have lashed a bit of birch sap and rhubarb into it. It didn't clear that well but is strong. Not one for entering in the County Show.

And now, back to Paris. This is an illustration from Ludwig Bemelmans' Madeline's Rescue. It features the Père Lachaise Cemetery which we visited on our last day in Paris. As Bemelmans did not see fit to include the last resting place of Marcel Proust here is my photograph.

I quite liked Bemelmans' depiction of Oscar Wilde's grave. There was no point trying to take a picture of the tomb as it was mobbed by school parties and middle-aged women in lipstick kissing the plastic barrier.

Interestingly, as London Sister and I were wandering around a handsome Frenchman approached us and enquired, “Proust?” We were so pleased that we had not been taken for Jim Morrison acolytes.