Appointments

Every year both boys are invited to an Annual Health Review. 

Our GP surgery phones us and I arrange the appointments for them and put them on the family calendar, in the office.

Now Thunderthighs is over 21 and more independent I always consult him before booking his appointment so this requires two phonecalls; one where the receptionist gives me the possible dates and another when I ring back to confirm the one he approves.

 

Ferretfingers I just sort out as he is much less independent.

Due to high blood pressure and other ailments Fester also has regular doctor’s appointments; but with his own GP at a different surgery.  These he writes on his calendar in the kitchen.

Last week Ferretfingers had his appointment and all went well.

Last night I discovered Fester has an appointment with his GP this morning at 9.20.

According to the family calendar Thunderthighs’ appointment is at 9.30.

Problem.

Ferretfingers goes to a day centre on Mondays and is picked up ‘any time between 9 and 10’.

Looking at the snow flurries passing the window I reckon it will be closer to 10 today.

All of which makes it very difficult for me to accompany Thunderthighs to the doctors (his choice not mine) as there has to be someone in the house with Ferret. 

I’ve just phoned the surgery to explain we might be late.

“What name?” says the receptionist “No … I haven’t got him down for today … What is his date of birth? …. 

His appointment is on Monday 26^th of March, not February.”

She was quite understanding really.

Cat tale #2

Language alert

Facebook's On This Day threw up this incident from last year (2017)

As I passed the office doorway on my way downstairs Fester said

"I've had enough of f*cking cates today.  That ginger bastard took the lens out of my glasses.  

I came up here and it was sat there forlornly."

He came downstairs into the kitchen and asked for "that tiny screwdriver", which I found and gave him.

Standing leaning against the work-surface (not over it or sat at the table where anything dropped might be easily caught and where there is a strong light) he loosened the spectacles' frame to slip the lens in.

There was a burst of profanity cause by him catching his beard in the hinge of the other leg of the glasses: the one he wasn't working on.

I had to leave the kitchen to laugh.

The quote of the day was a comment from one of my friends:

"You have been fortunate indeed in finding a partner so capable and useful around the house.  Many women are not so lucky."

 

 

Cat tale

Facebook’s On This Day has thrown up this memory from 2014

Last night Thunderthighs was fussing about getting the cats in.

I heard an excited "No Matilda" from the hall.

Went out to find her on the half landing outside the downstairs loo with a mouse in her mouth and - yes - it was alive.

So of course she drops it and it scurries into the loo, which is tiny and doubles as cat-litter tray and boot room.

And could the bloody cat find it again?

I explain to Thunderthighs that we can't leave it in there ....

I take out the wellies and bag of cat litter

Matilda goes in and pokes at the mouse

Mouse scurries round behind the back of the loo and Matilda can't find it again.

I take out the litter tray, loo roll holder and other bits shoved there out of the way.

Matilda still can't find it

Mouse has wedged itself between Toiletduck and bogbrush-holder.

Fed up I fetch empty cereal box, stick it in front of mouse, it has the nous to scuttle in and I take it and throw it into the back garden.

Matilda spends the next ten minutes searching for it in the loo

I put the stuff back and go back to the telly.

Matilda comes in, gives me a very hard stare, then sits down with her back indignantly towards me

Throughout all this Thunderthighs has done nothing useful whatsoever.

                                                              Matilda RIP May 2016

Marriage Lines

This evening, following some big family news, Fester and I started chatting about our wedding.

We’ve been together almost twenty-five years and married five years ago. 

Having been widowed less than two years after my first wedding I really hated the idea of guests thinking "I hope this one lasts".
Fester hates fuss and ritural.
So it was a very quiet wedding, just us, the boys and the witnesses, and the family and friends were informed later.

The conversation went something like this: me in the bathroom doorway, him prone in the bath with the Guardian ...

"<Youngfemalerelation> has received a proposal of marriage."
"What did she say?"
"What do you mean 'what did she say?'?"
"Did she say yes?"
"Of course she said yes!  You don't tell anybody unless you say yes."
"Well I don't know about these things."
"Well I do.  I've had more than one proposal of marriage you know.  You either say nothing and tell no-one, or you say yes."
"Our wedding was your idea."
"Was it?  I know I had to organise everything."

“Any way - I paid for it!” he protested.

“Not as much as I have” I retorted “in oh so many ways.”

“It cost me fifty quid” he has never sounded more Yorkshire.
Then “And lunch on the day!”

“Don’t forget the new clothes for you and the boys.”

“My God, the shirts cost me £50 each!”

Apparently it was worth it.

“I’m very happy with the deal” he says “It’s you that that gets wickt off wi' it.”

Happy Valentine’s Day

Bake Off

I had the pleasure this afternoon of attending LD:NorthEast’s annual Bake Off; part baking competition, part fundraiser, part fun for families and friends.

I paid my £2.50 for entry, including tea and cake. 

I bought sweeties for the boys, a hand-made Valentine's for Fester and a strip of raffle tickets.

I won a box of chocolates (now consumed), a Lynx-for-her gift-set and ‘bath petals’ on the tombola and had a lovely hand massage with oils of lavender and black pepper.

I had my cup of tea and cake with some of the ladies from the Knit&Natter group and you couldn’t wish for better company. 

I chatted with the volunteers and staff helping out on stalls and taking part,

After the winners in the various baking categories had been announced I bought a couple of cheese and sundried tomato scones and came home.

I also shook hands on a challenge-dare-deal with Ms Poldark.

It’s a secret at present but if I’m still blogging on my next birthday (62 FFS!!!) then you’ll know all about it.

I spoke to Middle Sister about it on the ‘phone this afternoon and we decided I’ve definitely reached the age and stage where I absolutely don’t give a damn what people think of me.   To be fair, it's never been high up on my list of concerns.  Either people like you or they don't; and if it's the latter so be it, have a nice life and let me be.  In fact I suspect when some people realise you don’t care about their good opinion it puts them on the back foot.

I’m never going to be doing another job interview, or run for public office, so I can fling open the closet doors.  What skeletons there are in there are few and flimsy.

As our Uncle Laurie said, when he helped me prepare for university interviews in 1975, "It's a case of mind over matter;  if you don't mind, they don't matter."