I made lunch for two of our agents.
He was our bass player in ‘Belt and Braces’ (that’s not his outfit it was the name of our theatre group) when he was 18, he’s now 62. She was a dancer and still has the grace of a trained hoofer.
I made Goan fish curry and white rice. The dawter and her paramour joined us, he ate little and she a little more. The fish was ‘monk’, expensive but tasty it only took four minutes to cook. We sat in the garden and I was reprimanded for not putting the parasol up over the table. To be fair the sun was hotter than it oughta be, so the old git and guest fished out the French parasol from his shed; with the help of two others they pushed up the umbrella, but not before the dawter cut a hole in the table cover so the pole could slide through.
The umbrella flapped around in the breeze like a Victorian petticoat but the mice had got to it so one whole section had gaping holes to the sky – nevertheless it mostly shielded us from the rays right through to the lemon sorbet and fruit salad.
A lovely Sunday was had by all with enough time to watch Sinner beat Alcaraz. I was sad. I wanted the Spaniard to win but, hey ho, there’s always next year, which is how I get through my dry cleaning.
Next year will be better than this year.
Today I drove to Clapham to my Swedish acupuncturist who has known me for twenty years. She has the body of an 18 year old and the wisdom of an octogenarian which is what she is.
‘You are aren’t as ill as you think you are’ she greeted me.
‘I’m not as ill as they think I am’ I retorted .
‘I have dreadful peripheral neuropathy’. I squeaked.
‘There’s only two ways of getting neuropathy she said. Diabetes…’
which is under control because of the dry cleaning
‘….And drug abuse.’
I don’t smoke have never had cocaine and barely a whiff of weed.
‘Drug abuse.’ she reiterated.
And then it dawned on me that nine pills a day constitutes drug abuse.
So we’ve decided to try and get the medication down.
I have an appointment with the GP next Tuesday to discuss my predicament.
I rattle at the moment, jump me up and down and I sound like a pair of maracas.
The acupuncture helps. 100 million Chinese swear by it and they seem to be doing alright.
Driving home I ate an egg and cress sandwich through Crystal Palace, strawberries through Annerley and slurped on a green juice in West Wickham I listened to Radio 3, the News is too disturbing.
Free speech is disappearing down the plug hole of misaligned political correctness and as for the Settlers in Israel they are too alarming. Their certainty that they are the chosen people, their certainty that the land is God given makes me quake. The idea that the Jewish God is so vengeful and selfish flies in the face of a serious faith.
After all the shit the Jews went through in the Second World War we watch as Netanyahu’s thugs shoot starving Palestinians, rounding them up like the poor souls in the Warsaw ghetto.
The Palestinian women all look like my aunty Becky, they are but a whisker away from me as a tribe. Those settlers will get some kind of karmic comeuppance ….there I go again with my ani-semitism and self hatred.
So today we went for tea to the oldest pub in Britain. It has a huge garden, new menus and old furniture. I had padron peppers and hummus only they served it up green – it was guacamole – I’m not allowed avocados due to potassium etc. but I ate it anyway.
Then it was home to more research. I need a medical doctor who has stepped outside of the Western model. A doctor who gets that a human being is a whole beast not just a jigsaw of components. I need a biochemical disillusioned practitioner for a second opinion. Of course I’m grateful to the Renal unit but they are like Taurus, Leo, Scorpio, and Aquarius all fixed signs. The NHS is fixed. It can’t make a distinction between getting the patient better and then getting the patient well.
I’m not knocking it – well I am – I’m observing my experience.
I am a little old lady with Semitic blood and a hot temperament, the treatment is not suited for my type. I’m not a stoical Britisher, I am not a polite, silent sufferer I am a loud ululating Arab who wails when it goes wrong.
‘I’m sorry for being a nuisance.’ I say to the nurse.
‘It happens some times’ she said flatly with not an ounce of sympathy.
I am being a nuisance, I bugger up their schedules and wear red lipstick. If I don’t scream for me who will.
I am back at the dry cleaners tomorrow fully expecting bad readings after my guacamole and green juice. Then it will be two days off.
I study my feet to see if they are swollen, I take my blood pressure and read my blood glucose twice, if not more, daily; I am the living embodiment of a neurotic. I look at photos of me and the old git a year ago and can’t believe the difference in us. We are growing old and ill together.
He holds me up, I keep his balance, between us we’re surviving.
There are explosions of anger which neither of us can remember, there’s something to be said for addled brains and 47 years of married blitz.