Last Saturday I hobbled up the path to St.Mary’s Church in Glyned.
Six stunning stained glass windows, old pews full of young people and their children, and a bride and groom dressed in white.
I’ve known them since they were kids.
I balanced on me walking stick as the hip vicar juggled their rings and sent them off down the aisle.
Of course I snivelled.
A lot of the attending gents wore tight fitting white suits, their women in frilly dresses. A photographer took pictures of the happy couple with various combinations of guests and me including my old black stick.
We drove to the community hall in Furl. A delightful old village with enough parking space for my old Ford and their classic Mustang.
Fairy lights and trestle tables laden with food. Hummus and pickles, pork pie and scotch eggs. I left before the tiramisu.
Driving home was tranquil if a little tearful, the countryside round Furl is ancient and breathtaking.
I’ve mastered the art of fire making since the old git has gone. He built an achetectural structure that never failed. I lay two big logs, in the middle I twist free newspapers from Waitrose, stopping off to read the centre page recipes, cover the paper with two firelighters. Then gathering kindling from the garden which I layover the top. The log lady has just delivered us – sorry me – two loads of 9 inhch logs which I lay over everything else. By the time it gets to five o’clock dialysis has frozen my blood so I shiver in me timbers. I set the paper alight and before you can say ‘Pointless’ I’m lolling in the armchair next to the roaring flames. The cottage is quiet so I can hear the crackling twigs. Watching the pictures in the embers come and go.
This week theres no wedding so I’m gathering up my energy.
Took myself off to Deer Park.
Harley-Davidson bikes parked next to the fence.
Bicycles balanced against the field gates and lots of grandparents.
Old geezers in shorts with fat wallets.
Ladies who lunch neat in their velour track suits.
Young couples with expensive push chairs and me.
I sit alone next to the pruned mint bushes and face the sun.
I also face th punters trying not to look like Nobbi No mates.
Today I left my stick in the car. My breathing is slightly better.
Next Tuesday I have an appointment with the heart consultant. It seems I have leaky valves just to add more shite to my health journey.
I am being positive not saying I’m falling apart and breaking down, I’m tricking my psyche by telling it that I’m well and that my crumbling body is healing itself.
I felt sick so I waited for breakfast, finally deciding on sourdough toast and a sausage. The sausage arrived in a bowl, with a likkel pot of brown sauce.
I ordered a decaff-coff with oat milk.
Since the loss of my old man I can’t finish my meals. So I left half a cup of coffee and a slice of sourdough.
I stared at the leftovers working out whether I could finish it and not waste my money but my melancholic gut won out.
Yesterday I took myself to the pub next door for lunch.
Prawn cocktail and a big bowl of chips. I managed the prawns but left eleven huge chunky chips.
I could hear my mother complaining about the starving children in Africa.
In future I’m ordering the kids portions.
When I got back today I made two hot water bottles and sat on the bench in the garden.
Put on an uplifting talk and fell asleep.
The sitting room is full of newly ironed washing.
I got Ryan, who was passing by, to carry my baskets upstairs.
He is a young builder who is so tall I come up to his crotch. He says call on him anytime I need anything done.
6ft 5in and tattooed, stepping in for the ‘oosbind. How lucky am I?
I now have two more baskets balanced on the piano stool waiting to be carried up to the baby room to join two other full baskets of washing. I’ll have to give him a call.
I enjoyed the ironing in front of the telly, watching the “One show’ and wondering where my career went.
It’s now nearly five o’clock.
My nose and fingers are cold the fire imminent.
I wake at 6.58 every morning, sit up in bed wondering how to fill my day.
On a vast ocean I’m bobbing about in a tiny boat wondering which way to go next.
Bobbing about in a rowing boat in a vast body of water is how I feel.
Nothing to hinder me from any direction but it all looks like a long way off.
I’m sure there are islands of palm trees and coconuts, lush mango groves and warm bays, but I can’t seem to get to any of it.
I pull the sheets up around me, suck on two rescue remedy gummies and rub my poor frozen feet. I don’t know how I get out of bed but I’m up.
This morning I took a shower.
I found clean clothes and dressed.
Went down stairs sideways and decided to fill the hole in the wall by the fifth step.
I’ve nobody to tell me what to do.
I’ve nobody with demands.
My time is my own.
Just the tiny voice of a grieving widow, who if left to her own devices, will crackle in front of a blazing fire.
I know how to be useful.
I know how to be, helpful but at the moment I can’t be fucking bothered.
I will emerge from this debilitating time – don’t know when – I will go out of curries and a swim. I will walk round the running track and finish my dinner, but at the moment, all of that is over there on the horizon, all misty and smudgy and as unaccessible as a squirrel chasing a magpie.
‘The pessimist complains about the wind; the optimist expects it to change; the realist adjusts the sails.’
Thank you William Arthur Ward