Two Out Of Three Ain’t* Bad

(* well, it might be actually)

I can’t say that I am fan of the phrase ‘bad luck comes in threes’. It brings a feeling of unease when you are on misfortune episode two, awaiting the final triplet of doom. Said triplet might be a little tardy in arriving, or the impact of unnecessary worry might result in a momentary lack of attention which brings about the final act of disaster.

Failing that, you could convince yourself that you only noticed two incidents, and if you really put your mind to it, you will find another example in the recent past, thereby condemning yourself to be an unfortunate at the hands of fate.

Recently, one of my closest relatives passed away unexpectedly. She was nearly ninety but in apparent good health, recovering from a second hip-replacement operation, and looking forward to returning to pastimes such as gardening and walking. She also craved being able to drive again. The surgeon who completed the first operation described her as “spritely“. It was a keen observation. She was also my mother’s closest companion, and seven years her junior. They lived close to each other and spoke at least twice a day. They also saw each other on average six times a week. They had very different views on how to organise a kitchen, or prune a hydrangea, but the sisterly love was there.

They were also a hilarious and/or frustrating double act. I used to call them “Can’t hear and won’t listen“. I’m not saying which was which (for now).

This sad family event has been closely followed by my husband’s illness getting worse, culminating in vomiting blood (I now know that this is measured in “mugs” by some members of the medical profession) and a fall in which he injured his back He is currently in hospital.

It might sound callous, but I am enjoying the brief break from home-nursing – well I would be if it wasn’t for banging my head against bureaucracy and poor admin whilst trying to arrange support for him after he is discharged and a timely discharge. I should point out that this is not an NHS issue (they have been wonderful despite the pressures on them). I believe that the problem lies the “social care system” (my opinions on this can wait for another day).

So, now I await the third ponyman of the semi-apocalypse. Or has he already visited? I did find water coming into the conservatory this morning; followed by a medium sized slug this evening. I hope that there’s not going be a plague of them.

Lord, is that the time? Better get some sleep and gather my strength for the coming days.

Nighty night.

Min6

x

Two Grumpy Old Men = One Grumpy Old Woman

Last night I endured another slow build up to polarised debate from my beloved (MB from this point) and his friend of too many years to count.

As a couple we don’t go in for much socializing and a weekly treat is a visit from MB’s buddy. Let’s call him BH. I say treat, but I analysed it last night and got more and more frustrated with the lack of urgency on BH’s behalf.

With an aging pet to care for I am often up at the crack of dawn administering drugs and providing food. I’m usually in bed by 10pm ‘school nights’ which I stretch to 11pm on Friday/Saturday. As such a prompt arrival from BH would be appreciated and this has been pointed out with little (or sometimes temporary) success on several occasions.

We should know better but,  as good hosts, we make sure that we are ready for BH’s arrival from 8pm. The weekly ritual then follows:

8.15pm MB texts BH to ask if we will see him shortly. BH texts back to say that it should be soon. BH lives 10 mins drive away.

8.35pm MB wanders the house muttering “where is he?” or “BH!” and other little catchphrases which were amusing the first time around (on average 18 months to 2 years ago). These usually include references to prog-rock lyrics.

8.55pm   I join in. Without the catchphrases or prog-rock references.

9.10pm to 9.30pm BH deigns to join us, is subjected to a short interrogation from MB (and sometimes me), is given a drink and joins us in the snug for a review of the week gone by and often amusing banter.

This week, BH arrived at 9.20pm (nearing his personal best of 9.50pm), and all was well until we got onto the subject of THE RIOTS.

Politically BH is on the left, MB on the right and I’m somewhere in between.

I could have scripted their exchanges shortly after the first plasma TV theft was reported, and a wiser person would have made their excuses (sore head, early start, scarlet fever) and left as the debate began.

But no, I chose to stay. Worse still, I join in and try to find some common ground.

After what felt like an hour of send in the tanks vs nurturing our youth I gave up. I told them that I was sick of it, there was enough conflict in the world and I was going to bed.

This morning, I’m glad that MB and myself don’t hold grudges, and I’m counting down to the repeat of the ritual in 6 and a half days.

Wish me luck.

Min6