When you have been with your partner for 38 years, you would think there wasn't too much you didn't know about them.
We were watching the English tv show Vera last night. The show is set in and around Newcastle in the north of England, where R hailed from. The scene was set in a pub.
R: I worked in that hotel. It was at the base of the High Level Bridge.
Me: Fascinating dearest. You've worked in so many places, it is a wonder you can remember.
R: Yes, my brother in law to be and me both worked there as we were saving to go to Butlins (a holiday camp of the most ghastly variety, but this is with hindsight) and of course that was where I met Cat Stevens. The hotel has changed........
Me: Stop! Now! What did you just say?
R: About meeting Cat Stevens?
Me: Yes, you've never told me that before?
R: Thought I had. Cat Stevens was Irish (I didn't know that) The pub was owned by an Irishman and he was a friend of Cat and he came to visit him once at the hotel and we were introduced.
Me: How come you have never told me this?
R: I thought I had. He was only semi famous then.
I used to find Cat Stevens so sexy before he became a weird religious Moslem nutter who agreed with murder of those critical of the prophet Mohammed. I am quite perplexed as to why I did not know R had met Cat Stevens.
Twenty seven months after Ray died, how do I feel and how is my grief level?
I still think of Ray every day. We fell into a vey comfortable relationship in our older years, unlike our passionate and adventurous younger years. We did our own things, and joint things. He cooked meals, I washed clothes. Each of us would do our own thing at home, Ray watching tv and playing on his tablet, while I composed brilliant blog posts. You might say the perfect older couple, a well oiled machine. We knew our roles and what to expect from each other.
Along with buying a new car, our apartment which became my apartment is somewhat different inside, with many things updated, and more to do. I didn't try to erase memories at home, but it seems I have done so quite a bit.
After being together for forty five years, Ray's sudden death was a terrible shock, not just to me, but to everyone who knew him and loved him.
For some time after he died, I wondered if I was grieving in the correct way. Is there a correct way? There were plenty of teary moments in the first few months, and one could not foresee what would trigger them.
Ray died in April, at the time of the year where I had just changed to wearing winter long sleeved shirts. I decided after washing my shirts, I would not iron them, but just hang them carefully on hangers to dry. Ray used to iron my shirts. I became used to unironed shirts.
Come the warmer months, it was time to change to short sleeved summer shirts. Phyllis wasn't home. "Kosov, come and look". I proudly displayed my row of summer shirts to Kosov, ironed by Ray a week before he died, and then burst into a sobbing mess on Kosov's shoulder. What an interesting but unwanted experience for a young man. I apologised the next day, and the reply was, "No problem Onnndrew".
There has only been one moment since when I almost became teary, but I am living a new life, on my own now. I have full control over my life, more confidence because I'm doing on my what both of us used to do, and doing it well enough. Decisions I have made on my own have been good.
There are so many things I want to tell Ray, but he has gone, and I guess I have adjusted to my life without him.
Ray's sister is a nice looking woman, with medium length straight 'blonde' hair, slim and a stylish dresser in that northern English way. Her doctor has never prescribed her medication aside from an asthma inhaler. She smokes and drinks a lot, really a lot, and I've just realised she is about to turn 75. A month after Ray's 75th birthday he died.
Who of my current readers met Ray? Obviously occasional blog commenter, our friend Bunyip who we've known for decades, and of course the lovely Fun60 in London, who we met with three times.
Oscar was born on the tenth of this month in Newcastle upon Tyne, and will be known by the name Oz. If you'd like to tell me the correct title for him in relation to my late partner Ray, please do so. He is Ray's sister's great grandson, the child of Ray's great nephew who visited Australia with his partner and stayed with us a few years ago. Daddy, the great nephew, is one handsome and lithe dude, and clearly fertile (Stop your thoughts right there Andrew, quite inappropriate).
As we oldies become fading history, I wonder if Oscar will ever be curious about his ancestor Ray and his Australian partner.
Ray had an aunt who at a youngish age married and moved to Sascet,Sasquesti, Seschesuwan, that province in Canada. She had children, who are Ray's cousins, but he was never curious about them. Ray was very much a person who wasn't interested in the past or history. He liked to look to the future, until the day came for him that there wasn't one.
They were a delightful couple to keep company with. We visited Sister's on the Bellarine for a barbeque lunch. We dined together at Gentleman George across the road, at Gourmet Curry Hut and at Rosco's at the old Chevron Hotel.
They visited the Grand Prix on three days of the event. They wandered the city and St Kilda. They caught trains, trams and walked. without help from me aside from giving them a Myki card each with one day's public transport credit. We visited the Dandenong Ranges on the Labour Day public holiday, firstly visiting Mount Dandenong, having some tucker then driving on to Grant's Picnic Ground, where we could surreptitiously and illegally feed some birds with seed, but we could not find a parking space. The best laid plans...
I had a thought, and we journeyed on to Belgrave. Ray's nephew is an excellent driver, and he did all the driving while he was here. We arrived at Belgrave and for the life of me, we could not find parking at the Puffing Billy Railway Station. Later I think I worked out that you use the suburban train car park, I think. We eventually squeezed the car into a space and illegally walked across the railway line.
There was a train full of people and ready to depart but it didn't have an engine. But we had seen an engine being loaded with coal.
View of Melbourne from Mount Dandenong. Exciting, not.
There is more than one dangerous tree, so an apostrophe must be inserted.
Mustang!
The train reverses in to collect its cars full of passengers.
Ready to depart.
I thought it was quite a feat of the platform staff to walk upside down on the platform.
Puffing Billy sets off, full of happy and waving people. I was waving to them too.
They departed Melbourne to journey on to Bali for a few days, and then via Dubai, they were home and ready for work on the Monday. Don't ask me how they went via Dubai. I have no idea.
Think back to when you were young, your hopes and dreams, your lusts and dislikes, your insecurities, the pleasure you had from successfully rearing a family, maybe not perfect, but you did your best.
Ingrid lives in her care home Nonna's Castle in Waterloo and she posted something that caught me. You can read Ingrid's post here, but a snip to read.
At the next table was a man sitting with his wife severely handicapped. She lay in a special wheelchair, couldn't speak and eat alone and what was awful was her look she always had her mouth wide open and two teeth were missing. At the beginning I really was afraid and disgusted when I saw her and admired her husband who came each afternoon to look after her.
Ingrid became used to the woman's appearance, and the woman referenced may have once been gorgeous looking, outgoing and the life of a party. In old age you don't know what people's lives were like.
One of Ray's sisters told me she wants a photo of herself in her young and party days next to her future aged care bed, just to remind staff of who she once was.
The use of the word crabbit indicates this is quite old, but it's still very apt.
"Look Closer
Nurse" What
do you see nurse, what do you see Are
you thinking when you're looking at me A
crabbit old woman, not very wise Uncertain
of habit, with faraway eyes Who
dribbles her food and makes no reply When
you say in a loud voice, "I do wish you'd try" Who
seems not to notice the things that you do And
forever is losing a stocking or shoe Who,
resisting or not, lets you do as you will With
bathing and feeding, the long day to fill Is
that what you're thinking, is that what you see Then
open your eyes nurse, for you're looking at me
I'll
tell you who I am as I sit here so still As
I use at you biddings, as I eat at your will I
am a small child of ten with a father and mother Brothers
and sisters who love one another A
young girl of sixteen, with wings on her feet Dreaming
of soon her lover she'll meet A
bride soon at twenty my heart gives a leap Remembering
the vows that I promised to keep At
twenty five now I have young of my own A
woman of thirty, my young growing fast Bound
to each other with ties that will last At
forty my young sons will now grow and be gone Af
fifty, once more babies play around my knee Again
we know children my loved one and me
Dark
days are upon me, my husband is dead I
look to the future, I shudder with dread For
my young are all busy, rearing young of their own And
I think of the years, and the love I have known I'm
now an old woman and nature is cruel Tis
her jest to make old age look like a feel The
body, it crumbles, grace and vigour depart There
is now a stone where I once had a heart But
inside this old carcass a young girl still dwells And
now and again my battered heart swells I
remember the joys, I remember the pain And
I'm loving and living life all over again I
think of the years all too few - gone, so fast And
accept the stark fact that nothing can last So,
open your eyes nurse, open and see Not
a crabbit old woman, look closer, see ME
My ABI Brother lives 50 minutes drive south east of Melbourne. My Tradie Brother and Ex Sis in Law live a 50 minute drive south south east of Melbourne. Sister lives a 90 minute drive south of Melbourne, with the need to negotiate the bay and Victoria's second largest city .
It is so interesting that Ray's family in the west of Newcastle all live so close together. His 26 year old great nephew, the one who stayed with us a couple of years ago, has bought a house in the area, as has a younger great nephew. Property is much cheaper than it is in Australia and good on the two lads for making the effort to become home owners.
Using Google Maps, I measured the distance between the extremes of where his family live and it is 3.5 kilometres/2miles west to east and draw it as an oblong circle, 1.5km north to south.
Within that area live Ray's three sisters, their children and then their children, along with two cousins.
Excluding the great nieces and nephews and partners, Ray had 22 blood relatives and two cousins living within five square kilometres.
That is family, all close and all connected. Or are they?
"The only time we all get together is when youse come here", they said. Pretty well weekly I speak on the telephone to my three siblings and communicate with Ex Sis in Law online.
So while Mother's children live miles apart, maybe we are more closely connected than Ray's family who live close to each other. Dunno. My mind is just wandering about connections and relationships.
As per her itinerary, Sister's and Bone Doctor's daughter Jo, as this is published is about to take a Japanese bullet train from Tokyo to Kyoto.
I could say it is quiet here without Phyllis but he is often out and about. He is staying with a friend for two nights.
The Swedish Death Cleaning goes on. While it didn't all go in bags, I think I would have taken the equivalent of about twenty of the bags full of stuffs to the local charity shop. Just because you have space, there is no need to fill it. As you well know, I am not a person who exaggerates or is theatrical with detail, but I estimate that one tonne of oven trays and metal baking dishes went into recycling, and another half a tonne of ceramic baking dishes to the charity shop. Phyllis must have found the muller and put it in the bag. In a moment of disingenuousness, I can't remember what we used the muller for. The green thing is a Tupperware celery container. Next to the bags sits a draining board that came with our sink. I was reluctant to throw that out, until I thought about it and acknowledged to myself in nearly ten years since the kitchen was given its makeover, it has never been used.
Aside from one jumbled bookcase in the spare room and bedding in the linen press, oh, and the filing cabinet, oh and photos, there is not much more cleaning required.
What is this, asked Phyllis. I don't have a clue, I replied. I just picked it up, gave it glance, never used, get rid of it. It is car phone cradle, Phyllis proclaimed as he examined it.
Ah, I thought, I will keep that, even though my car and phone connect for calls, the sat nav is pretty awful to use and the voice controls can never understand what I am saying, usually an address. I still use Google Maps and while I can connect the maps to the car screen, I forget how and I can't be bothered checking, given how rarely I need maps in the car. YouTube helps again, with a short clip about where to place the cradle. At the moment I sit my phone upright in a coffee cup holder in the console, close to where this phone cradle appears to clip.
Swedish Death Cleaning can bring sadness at times.
I had promised R to see one of his sisters 'right' if he died first, and last week I received the balance of Ray's superannuation to my bank account. It wasn't six figures, but close. Today I sent the minimum five figure sum I could via my bank by electronic transfer. I followed every instruction so carefully and triple checked the account details Ray's sister had sent to me via the encrypted Whatsapp. It worked as far as I can see. I tried to check if the amount had left my account to be greeted with a message that I had been locked out of my account. I tried the banking app on my phone and I was locked out of that too.
I called my bank and eventually spoke to someone after twenty minutes in a phone queue, who then transferred me to another department with a short wait. This was the first time I had tried to transfer money overseas and the bank was concerned about the legitimately of the transfer. I was asked umpteen questions, and SNAP, the assumption was made that my late partner was female. Since Ray died I have become fed up with this assumption and I will later lodge a complaint. In spite of all my answers, the questioner kept coming up with more concerns, the killer being, if your sister in law's Whatsapp has been hacked, how do you know they haven't just looked at her style of writing and copied it? I could not argue against that. While I was on the phone I had missed call and a voice message from my bank's fraud department.
What we need you to do is contact her and just verify the bank account details you have match hers. Please, it is 5am in England. She won't wake until at least 9am. I tried but WhatsApp doesn't allow you to hold a call and call another number using WhatsApp. I tried to call her normal phone number and received a recorded message that I wasn't allowed to do that. After checking later, when I cheapened my phone plan, it doesn't include international calls. Bank person was patient. She gave me the direct number for the banking fraud department and said as soon as you can get through to your sister in law, call us back and we can unlock your bank account and approve the transfer. I have called and called Ray's sister, and no answer. With a moment of exquisite timing, I realised this Saturday she was flying to Spain today for a short holiday. Just call me lucky.
I do understand the bank's caution as they have come under heavy criticism after some people have been defrauded of hundreds of thousands of dollars by scammers and fraudsters.
Since Ray died, I think I've eaten two takeaway pizzas, and tonight after such stress decided to have my third takeaway hamburger. I ordered online, or tried to. I nearly completed the order and then it occurred to me that my bank account was locked, so I have to pay cash. This is why I do keep cash in my wallet but not much. I will message Phyllis tomorrow to ensure he gives me the rent money.
Tomorrow Jo has a performance rehearsal in Melbourne and Sister's wife, Bone Doctor will drive her to Melbourne and wait while the rehearsal happens. She suggested we could lunch if I was free and I am. We will lunch at Ray's favourite plant nursery, with its quality plants and I will buy a new potted annual for the balcony, as the cyclamen sent to me by Ray's former workmate and friend when Ray died is on its last legs.
That is all. It would be nice to always be bright and cheerful when writing, but it would be false for me. I no longer have the energy to check this for typos or other errors. Publish and be damned.
Later edit: Ray's sister called at 1.30am and we compared details and all was well. I quickly returned to sleep and at 7am I called the bank and soon my bank account access was restored.
This is known as a Memory Bear and it's made up by clothing of Ray's I sent to one his sisters in England, mostly jeans and track suit pants, with the tie being made from one of shirts he wore at times and I thought really suited him. The bear arrived in the post yesterday. The clothes will make more bears for others to remember him by. He came with a key, to open our hearts to the bear.
It cost me about $70 to send the clothes and about £35 for his sister to send the bear, so about the same.
The bear sits with the cushion at about 35cm tall, nearly 14 inches. Isn't he just lovely and of course I've named him Ray Bear.
It dawned a nice sunny Saturday, not that any of us saw the sun rise. Mr Sun gets up very very early in summertime England. Sister 1 suggesting we take an outing to Whitley Bay and have some lunch at a cafe within the Spanish City. Neither she nor her partner had been there before. While it was wonderfully sunny, it was not really warm. While the large cafe where we lunched was well staffed, I can't say it was good value or recommend it.
We entered via the main doors into a reception area where you gather before entering a wedding or party event space. I'm sure the space was very nice. The Spanish City building was pretty well abandoned for eighteen years.
But that is not what we want, We want a cafe and this one will do, with its nice views to the outside.
The old W.D. & H.O. Wills cigarette factory, now repurposed as many have given up their addictive vice.
In the afternoon we met up with another of R's cousins and her son who cares for her. Her late husband as I remember was the loveliest of gentlemen. To visit her we would have to walk for five minutes, cross the A69 by ramp and footbridge, and walk for three minutes...we drove.
That night it was a return visit to The Poacher's for dinner. Tomorrow will be our last full day in England and we went out with a bang.
I jumped ahead, so I need to backtrack to the Thursday the 18th. We revisited the lovely Blacksmith's cafe in Belsay for lunch.
Sheep are sleeping in the warm sunshine today.
Fields of canola glow in the background.
We stopped off in Ponteland at my request to take a photo of the gorgeous church. Tom swung the Citroen into a side street and stopped illegally while I these photos.
It is the way my brain works. Ponteland = residences' of known well paid local football players. Do they get drunk in the local pub and then have regrets about what they did with an old man the next morning? Dream on Andrew.
R's nephew and his family had prepared a feast for us. The nephew's mother, Sister 3 kept trying to help but was nudged away. After the meal she tried to start washing dishes and was again nudged away as the couple loaded up the dishwasher. Sister 3 was once a going out person, in fashionable clothing, with lots of drinking and smoking. About 2014 I can remember her going out to seeing a boy band. One Direction or one similar, with a hip flask full of vodka. She and her friends partied on in the gay nightclub area of Newcastle. Now, she is devoted to her family and helps them every way she can, that they will allow.
How lovely of R's great niece to make us such a nice cake.
Err, maybe not made it but it was her idea. Her mother paid.
Make of it what you will but I've had some very frank chats with R's nephew late at night after our last visit to England. I am not saying I did, but I got some understanding of a how a gay guy can fall in love with a straight guy. He is just the absolute best. Personal photos are set to self immolate in 24 hours time.
You know the saying, cutting off your nose despite your face and that is what I did when I put my foot down with a firm hand.
Before we left Australia we had booked our train trip from Newcastle to Kings Cross Station, where we would catch a tube train to Heathrow for our flight home. I had allowed for more than a two hour delay for the trip into the plan.
The night before we caught a wonderfully smooth and luxurious LNER train to York, after a couple of drinks at Sister 1's R spouted forth. He (that's me) thinks his trains are so wonderful. The last time we travelled from Kings Cross, it was a horrible trip. Someone vomited everywhere and...well I can't remember now his other complaints. All I could remember about the trip was that it wasn't nice and at quite a high speed, it was hard to walk down the train corridor to the buffet car. I think we may have sitting backwards too, which was our fault.
R went on and on about the train trip, in great detail that I don't remember. I said enough. Stop this now. He didn't, and I said if you hate the train so much, I will cancel the train booking to London then. Fine, he replied. I went outside and with my phone and I cancelled the train booking and LNER promised me a full refund, which I have yet to receive. I think for the two of us the price was about AU$100, £50.
When I returned inside the conversation had changed. About an hour later R asked me if I had really cancelled the train booking. I replied yes. Voices were not raised, there was not an argument.
Next morning when R arose, he again asked me if I had cancelled the train trip. Yes, I had.
The next day on train to York I said to R, we need to book something to get to London to go home. The reply was, you cancelled the train. You look at flights to London. It seems trains are killing domestic flying in England but I did find a BA flight on my phone to get to London. After double checking the times with R, it was good and I booked and paid for the flight to Heathrow.
The cost was a few hundred dollars. I've never actually checked. I am too scared. I mentioned the cost to R, and he replied, you cancelled the train, you pay for the flights. And that is how it has remained.
I did really cut off my nose despite my face, but I don't care, least of all about the money. I mostly go for the quiet life but I stood up to his loose talk.
The real issue is R made me doubt myself about the train trip to London. Have I allowed enough time? What if the train is cancelled? What if there are obnoxious people on the train? What guarantee is there about the train? Industrial action has been affecting all train traffic in England. This had begun before we travelled to England, has been ongoing and is still happening now. PM Sunak seems uninterested in doing anything about the industrial relations public transport mess within his country.
R made me lose confidence in myself and travelling by train in England. It will all be brought up in a future argument. Lol, very mature and after nearly 44 years together, we still behave so childishly.
My forecast of the correct day when my ongoing infection would reoccur was correctly forecast by me, Thursday the 18th. Friday the 19th was a very slow start at Sister 1's. Just before lunch time I was driven back to the NHS walk in centre. I was triaged by a different nurse and I was quickly queued to see someone and given a plastic container to provide a sample.
I waited in the waiting room for around two hours, filling time with my phone and observing the order of people who were seen quite quickly and those like me who weren't so urgent. I noted a couple of people were really quite unwell and in pain. There was a young lad with a terrible gash on his leg. There was a pregnant woman holding her stomach. Yep, they were higher priority than me.
I don't know what their titles were but I saw a very senior nurse and another nurse on a rung or so lower that her. A thorough history was taken, the sample analysed on the premises (that wouldn't happen at home) and I was offered a choice between what the clinic would normally subscribe for a UTI and the antibiotic I had been taking prescribed at home. I chose the antibiotic I had been taking and it came with the proviso that it would be a private prescription from a doctor and so would cost me cost me £10. The consultation took about half an hour. The medication was dispensed at the the pharmacy next door to the clinic and from there on I was fine until returned to Australia. No direct cost and there would have been nothing to pay if I chose the clinic prescribed antibiotic. I did not enjoy the two hour wait, but still, I was prescribed what I needed. The same can happen here if you go to a private bulk billing clinic, where there isn't the add on to what our Medicare system pays for you to see a doctor, but at such clinics, you can not have your own doctor.
Meanwhile Sister 1, her partner and R had been to Tescos and had a nice lunch. I had missed lunch, so once home Sister 1 made me a sandwich. We may have had a Chinese meal ordered to be delivered that night. It was far too much food and R's sisters don't seem fond of keeping leftovers. I would mention the left overs could be kept for tomorrow, but it was never put in the 'fridge and I wouldn't eat it the next day for that reason. It was thrown out. Terrible food wastage to us who so rarely throw any food out.
I may as well put a wrap up to medical matters. Tuesday just past I went to a posh private hospital and had the stent from my kidney removed. What a relief. The stent had done the job but was causing bleeding. The morning after, suddenly everything seemed normal. Operation success, eventually six weeks later. I don't complain much and only R had an idea of what I had been through for six weeks and I can tell you it wasn't pleasant.
The day went like this. A bowl of cereal and coffee at 7am and then fast. Water allowed until 10am. 11.30 leave home. Check into hospital at noon, as I was told. So much paperwork to be done by nurses, even though I had filled in the online pre admission form. Change into one of the gowns with a back opening with a dressing gown over top. Lie on a bed for an hour or so and I fell asleep. More form filling in by nurses and a brief chat with the surgeon and anaesthetist.
At 3.15 I was wheeled into the operating theatre, a canula inserted and I was out to it. I woke at 3.30 with the procedure done. The actual time I was out to it was ten minutes. Then recovery for ages, a sandwich, cup of tea and a sweet biscuit and R was allowed to pick me up at 4.50.
Apparently I am 'young and fit' (little do they know in spite of their questions) so I was dumped down the procedure list but I ask you, for a ten minute procedure, is it really appropriate to be in hospital for five hours? At least here was no further charge...unless a bill arrives by post.
R and I caught the bus to the city centre. Grainger Market is interesting. We walked a bit more but my arthritis kicked in so badly, I was constantly looking for a seat with a back to ease the pain and get my back upright. Sorry hon, I just want to go home, and we did.
We had a really nice Italian dinner that night at Oli and Joe's. Few photos were taken on the day.
R told me off for being weird, as I took a photo of my bus seat. You must agree, it is a rather nice looking bus seat and I think it was comfortable, perhaps not great for the wide hipped.
The City of Newcastle is really so cool.
From the bus, a bobby top.
I concluded that the owner of this very nice Mercedes was one of the owners of the Oli and Joe's. From the corner of my eye I saw the owner come out to check on what I was doing with his car. I was just interested.
Our food was so nice. Who knows what it cost. I've learnt to not bother with money when out. I don't know who paid. I just pay R what I owe when he does the sums on his phone.
If you remember I was having ongoing infections before we travelled to England, now cured by kidney surgery. It was a case of infection arrives, get antibiotics, infection disappears and reappears. If I had antibiotics at hand, it would have a five day course, then maybe six or seven days of relief before the infection returned. A double course of antibiotics might give me ten to twelve days of relief.
This had been ongoing from March 2022 and was not fully diagnosed after many scans and tests until early this year. The there was the long wait for private surgery, which I only chose because I thought it would be much quicker. I doubt it was quicker than the public health system and instead of being free, the surgery cost me a lot of money even though I have private health insurance.
With a double script from my specialist and a couple of scripts from my doctor, I was well prepared for the month away. I had all my medications for the month we were away. Except Chemist Warehouse mucked up. I was told there weren't any more antibiotic prescriptions, that all had been filled. I assumed it was true to its word. But no. I was two short it was the chemist shop's fault as for some reason my doctor's prescriptions weren't on the chemist list and had not been added to my phone app. I never checked the app while away and when I arrived home, there were two antibiotic scripts showing. I was cross but what to do? What to do is take more care myself about mistakes others might make.
So, almost to the day I can predict infection after the last course of antibiotics. To get a dose of antibiotics two days before infection arrived, I tried England's National Health Service. I could have made a private doctor appointment but I was advised that walk in clinics would be the best way to go. Sister 1's partner drove us and her neighbour who was having eye problems to the clinic.
I understood that Australia has a reciprocal arrangement with England whereby citizens of either country could access the same medical system as locals do. Reception was not interested in where I came from, only for an address where I was staying in England. I take it from this that medical care in England is open to all foreigners.
Once at the clinic patients see a triage nurse. After a wait of about 15 minutes I was triaged by a friendly but no nonsense nurse with the answer being we can't give you antibiotics if you don't have an infection. Return when you do have an infection. In spite of being able to get antibiotics in advance from my own doctor at home, I understood where the triage nurse was coming from. I wasn't happy, but I understood.
Sister 1's neighbour also received short shrift. She had a hospital eye appointment in a bit over a week and she did not need any short term treatment. I think this system is quite good. At home you might go to Emergency at hospital, be triaged and then free to wait. If you have a sore thumb, you may well sit waiting for many hours, possibly overnight. There will be many more cases that require urgent treatment rather than your sore thumb. The triage nurse kept the waiting room clear by judging each patient's needs.
So I concluded that while I came away without antibiotics, the system was efficient and well organised and cost me nothing.
We did little on the Sunday. It seems from map history we went to Niece 2's for a drink, nibbles and cake. Son 1 of theirs was very busy socialising while the seriously disabled son was sleeping. He has never developed proper sleep patterns, in spite of so much parental attempts.
Monday Sister 2 and her husband picked us up and after a stop off at Morrisons to pick up an ordered made up lunch for five, we travelled north to R's brother in law's sister farm. It is obligatory that we visit her each time we are England. Her husband, a chronic alcoholic died in the mid 20 teens and suddenly she was a merry widow with lots of money. And then she spent.
Gorse blooming along the way, along with the ubiquitous canola yellow in the fields.
I've never researched but the property's actual name is Thrunton Mill, on the outskirts of Wittingham, kind of pronounced as Witengem.
A few metres from the house runs a creek called Swine Burn.
The creek path. Her late husband once showed me the depression that ran through the property, a former Roman road.
She leases out the farmland for sheep grazing and has a large modern sheep shed. It is a boring shed, so no photos. I think it was last year when a terrible wind came through and blew down many trees in her small forrest.
The building here is a sympathetic recent extension with a downstairs bathroom and large bedroom
The covered over spa and outdoor area are used a lot by her family.
This conservatory was added.
She has won local vegetable growing prizes.
I can't remember what was in this outdoor shed. I did ask in the past.
The coal shed.
The AGA is either gas or electric. I only remember it wasn't a solid fuel burner. How disappointing.
The forest destruction was terrible. She was made an unsolicited offer to clear the mess for a very cheap price. At 74, she is not a fool and quickly found out she can profit from the sale of the fallen timber. It is worth real money, lots.
We walked up the hill behind the property with R's brother in law. Her dog whose name I forget came with us.
A view of the house down the hill. She has a self sufficient sewerage system but last year it failed and she paid a bomb to two different companies to get it working as it should.
Speculating, but I think Thrunton Mill must have a wheat mill to make flour. Usually such endeavours need water and that would have come from the creek. These were guessed to be very old meat hooks in the living room ceiling but now that is doubtful. They are very old hooks though.
In the conservatory after our lunch Sister 2 and her sister in law cut out patterns to make teddy bears. I didn't understand what they were doing, beyond cutting along lines.
It was a lovely day in an historic rural area. Is that an oxymoron? Isn't all of England historic?
Oh gosh, where has the time gone? We only have a week left and so much to do, least of all my medical problems.
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