derrickjknight

Still Taking It Easy

Last night before going to bed I watched the highlights of the second day of the second test match between England and Sri Lanka.

On this warm, gloomy-overcast day, to the accompaniment of a few neighbouring tweeting birds, largely silent bees, and an occasional distant barking dog, I toted my camera on two very short trips around the garden.

Along with her general pot refurbishment and general tidying

Jackie has planted up the bulbs bought yesterday;

her equipment bearing evidence of her labours. She suggests that the pig has moved itself towards the gate in readiness for the coming pannage season.

Beyond the recently planted iron urn extends the Gazebo and Brick Paths from Jackie’s weeded old well surround.

She has recently tracked down a replacement Summer Wine to replace one that died in the Rose Garden.

On Wednesday Martin worked hard clearing a space for it and planted it away from the original site because it is inadvisable to reposition one in the same spot.

Pink chrysanthemums; blue convolvuluses; white begonias, cyclamen, and antirrhinums are rivalled by the Nottingham Castle bench lichen.

We have all colours of Japanese anemone;

and dahlias;

other roses include Absolutely Fabulous and Lady Emma Hamilton.

The Rose Garden continues to flourish.

The rudbeckias sit well behind the pinkish peeling eucalyptus bark.

The Weeping Birch Bed leads through the cryptomeria to Florence sculpture on Fiveways.

More Japanese anemones photobomb the Brick Path and blend well with the iron urn’s pink petunias.

This evening we dined on succulent chicken Kiev; boiled new potatoes; firm carrots, cauliflower, and broccoli; and tender chopped cauliflower leaves with which I drank riserva privada Chilean Malbec 2022.

A Gander At Geese

This was the first time I had left the house since my catheter removal yesterday morning. I therefore stayed in the car throughout, yet rather longer than I would have wished.

After Jackie bought some tulip and daffodil bulbs at Otter Nurseries this afternoon we were thwarted in our intended forest drive by two factors. First our egress from Newbridge drive onto Christchurch Road was stalled by

a very recent crash site causing

a long tailback which had not been cleared when we returned home.

Our chosen route to the east was then closed for road repairs and we were forced down

Snooks Lane. Take a good look at this, because we were not the only ones at what is near enough our rush hour, trying to avoid the continuing blockage along the road on which we live. Snooks Lane wasn’t one of them, but there were other similar winding routes congested by others. Fortunately Jackie got us home.

A gathering of geese now monopolised Little Hatchet Pond as they floated among the water lilies, so we took a gander at them. Passing

walkers and a wagtail, we then made our sluggish way home.

This evening we dined at Rokali’s where I enjoyed Methi Goust and a chapati while Jackie’s choice was chicken biriani; I drank Kingfisher and Jackie drank Diet Coke. As always, the service was friendly and efficient, despite a gathering of customers from the Bournemouth air show.

Tapster’s Tapestry

Early this morning we attended Lymington Hospital for the removal of my catheter which was executed swiftly and painlessly. It took me so long to produce an adequate flow to confirm all was in order that I was sent off to the café downstairs for a mug of tea to add the necessary liquid fuel. I surprised myself by adding a Full English breakfast eaten with such relish matched only by yesterday’s Chinese takeaway – gusto I have not experienced since the first cystoscopy.

This afternoon I dozed over

the third of my A.E. Coppard’s Golden Cockerel Cockerel books.

This work tilts at windmills as applicable today as they were in Coppard’s time of the first quarter of the twentieth century; bureaucracy, international relations, warfare, politics, and people management are all lampooned in this blend of satirical satire and realism, following in the steps of Jonathan Swift – the difference being that our author managed the feat in just 58 pages.

Three adventurous adolescents unite on a trip to discover whether the earth is flat or round. In all their perambulations they establish no certainty about this or anything else, eventually returning home. Perhaps with all life it is the journey that counts. They encounter a strange variety of peoples and their countries, briefly engaging in relationships with them. The writer’s insightful knowledge of people is apparent from the desire of all the freed captive humans to return to their cages.

In his title Coppard indulges his poet’s taste for alliteration, as along with rhyme, simile, and metaphor he does throughout the story. “It was the sort of poetry that dazed the mind; it crackled like elastic and smelt of the roll of a drum”; “Time, however, had drooled heavily by”.

His dry humour is also constantly evident, as in this piece of well executed dialogue: “‘Not a soul of them is caring about this grand question of the contour of the earth!’ / ‘They don’t seem to take an all-round view, that’s flat'”.

Further evidence of the fluent prose is given with these scans of Gwenda Morgan’s faithful engravings in the 1930s style. They can be enlarged in the gallery.

This evening I dined on left-overs from last night’s Chinese takeaway, while Jackie chose a bowl of mixed vegetables.

Count Stefan

I had begun reading

before going into hospital on 21st, and needed a little revision before continuing with it today. The frontispiece is by Robert Gibbings.

Here are the boards and spine; and the jacket which has protected them from two years short of a century. Perhaps the fact that four of the last few pages were partially uncut suggests the book has not been opened very often.

This tale, set in an Austrian guest house, during which one of the guests is writing a novel “all about an adventuress whom Miss James had invented, but whom she disliked with a fierce unpleasantness” and for whom she found a perfect model in one of the other residents. Coppard traces the interrelationships of the group brought together in this establishment as they jostle for position in the house; especially as they await the arrival of the constantly delayed eponymous Count. His absence fosters speculation, and consequent rivalry over his anticipated attractions, which, in the event, bear no relation to reality.

He is man with a problem at last arriving into the house with a doctor charged with curing him. Carinthia James, despite her better judgement, finds herself persuaded into becoming a key supporter and part of a similar group of recruits. There is a question of madness, eventually settling on one of the original residents. Couples pair off into their own exclusive relationships.

I have chosen to scan one particular page of Coppard’s descriptive scene-setting prose with clever little details.

Others are attached to illustrations by Robert Gibbings.

This evening we dined on small portions of chop suey and chow mein from Hordle Chinese Take Away.

A Beautiful Irony

Having been kept awake most of the night by the function of my catheter, I have decided to explain something about it. The purpose is to enable a free flow of urine in the affected body. I will spare my readers a scan of the explicit colourful drawing we are given; those more squeamish may wish to pass the following paragraph completely.

A plastic tube is inserted into the urethra travelling to the bladder. This remains in place until the medics are satisfied that there is a free flow devoid of blood clots. It is the stinging resulting from the passing of these clots that disturbed my night’s sleep; there has not been much of this during the day. The liquid is collected in an attached plastic bag the content of which requires regular emptying and flushing away. If successful my catheter is due to be removed in two days time.

By coincidence Ronan and Harvey of Tom Sutton Heating visited by appointment this morning having brought a machine for flushing out a blockage in pipes carrying water from the boiler. As I sat with my (concealed) catheter bag attached to my leg, it was impossible to ignore the beautiful irony of this juxtaposition.

Shelly visited this afternoon bringing love, care, well wishes, and enjoyable conversation.

Later Nick Hayter visited to touch up areas of painting on our west end gable wall which he had not been able to reach while the scaffolding was in place. We also took the opportunity of a pleasant catch up.

Today Jackie completed her tidying of the patio after yesterday’s gusting winds.

Readers may have wondered what were the strips of wood in this picture from yesterday.

They were bought to conceal the peeling blue paint on the butler sinks. I was much steadier stepping out to photograph this before dinner.

This evening we dined on Ashleigh battered cod and garden peas.

Sweet As Scented Cyclamen

This morning I removed my compression stockings, designed to deter deep vein thrombosis, which have the disadvantage of slipping on smooth floors. This action does not seem to have been premature.

My next plan was to completely de-crust my skin by treating myself to my first shower since the morning of 21st. First I had to be coated in Hibiscrub in order to keep germs at bay.

I delayed this process after lunch by sitting with a camera on a patio chair in the stiffly breezy yet warm sunshine. Of course I stayed on my seat.

The wind had blown down a post supporting a basket of begonias

and gently laid the plants upright on the paving.

The peach rose, the fuchsias, and the verbena bonariensis swayed in the gusts; The more sheltered honesty, hydrangea, busy lizzies, and Erigeron blended well with each other.

When I returned from my shower I fancied I was smelling sweet as the scented cyclamen and its ladybirds casting shadows across the table.

This evening Jackie prepared me the same meal as yesterday with carrots and cauliflower instead of runner beans. She sneaked in twice as much, but I could only eat half and give her the rest back for tomorrow.

Dozing

Having grown used to hospital waking times I came downstairs early enough this morning to watch all four days’ highlights of the first test match between England and Sri Lanka then dozed away the rest of the day with sporadic entry into my blog comments.

Later I posted:

Four Days

This evening Jackie prepared a small portion of cottage pie and tender runner beans for me, followed later by ice cream.

Four Days

21st to 24th August 2024.

My cystoscopy on 21st revealed that there was a little more of the tumour left from last time. This has been removed and sent for analysis, the result of which will appear in about ten days time. There is now a possibility that BCG vaccination will not be the best course of further treatment.

This procedure had required general anaesthetic. There are several possible after effects of this: wooziness, difficulty of concentration, loss of appetite, constipation, and projectile vomiting. I experienced them all. The concentration problem in addition to the constant distractions going on around me meant that although I did manage to pass my eyes over the words – sometimes repeatedly – of the Dover Thrift Edition of collected Stories of Rudyard Kipling I will not be reviewing it.

The story of one night will illustrate the last two symptoms. Two carers helped me to the Patient Toilet and left me in hope (not in vain) for twenty minutes. During the interval they remade my bed with fresh linen. With catheter attached they helped me back to bed and began to tuck me in. Suddenly all I had been persuaded to eat that day was projected all over me and the bed, which they proceeded to remake.

I seem prone to blood clots blocking the passing of urine and its contents. This continued to be a painful problem until, the morning before the above event, my catheter was removed. Later it was replaced and I was told I would need to stay in another day. On the final morning the urologists said I could go home with a catheter, which I did. The day was a Saturday.

Now, at the weekends, only essential procedures are carried out and non-medical staff are at a bare minimum. Because my legs had spent these nights pressed to the end of my too short bed, my replacement knees had been kept so bent that I couldn’t walk without help. I would therefore need a wheelchair. These are normally available for hire with a £5 deposit at the hospital entrance. Today they were all locked up and there were no porters. Neither was there anyone at the closed reception to ask for information. When Jackie arrived on the ward I suggested she asked the nurse on duty to find one. She did find one that functioned like the dodgy supermarket trolley which cannot be steered. Jackie was told that after she had struggled to negotiate this, containing all my 15 stone and my bag, along the corridors, into the lift and along the paths outside to the car, she must return it to the ward.

I can assure you I will not let that happen again.

It was good to be home.

Just Clocking In

My One day’s trip to Southampton General Hospital on Wednesday extended to four nights. Jackie collected me this afternoon and drove me home complete with catheter. When I am up to it I will offer more details.

The Good Samaritan

Late this morning we took a trip to the north of the forest in order to brunch at The Potting Shed Café at Hyde. We had enjoyed it so much on Saturday with Jessie that we wanted to go back.

From Holmsley Passage I photographed some heather scenes for John Corden;

Dog walkers and cyclists made way for us to pass on the road.

We pulled into Smugglers Road carpark to picture standing ponies and a prone foal.

We were some way from our goal when I spotted that we were about to run out of petrol. The only chance of finding any more was to make it to the busy main road to Ringwood. Which we did. And turned left. And ran out of Petrol. Opposite a bus stop.

As we sat wondering who to call,

with the tailback building up behind us while we blocked traffic in each direction while oncoming vehicles paused to allow

those behind us to pass and continue on their way, David came to our rescue. He was on his way home from Ringwood. He turned round, drove Jackie back in the direction from which he had travelled, stopped at a garage where she bought a can and a gallon of fuel which he poured into our tank having driven her back to me sitting in the Hyundai, and waited until our engine fired up at first turn of the key. We couldn’t thank him enough. Next time we travel to Hale from whence he hails we hope to meet him again.

Ponies gathered on the green at North Gorley, and those forcing traffic onto the sward don’t seem to have moved since the 17th.

Splendid sunflowers tower above the fence to The Potting Shed Café, where Jackie produced photographs of both establishment and meals:

she chose very fresh and tasty blue cheese and walnut salad; I enjoyed a repeat of my last meal there:

The Full Works breakfast, with best quality ingredients, and water. In the first picture the hash brown is obscured by the authentic black pudding, and the herby sausage by the bacon in the second.

On our return through Bransgore Jackie photographed Tom and Jerry decorating a postbox.

For a late, light, supper Jackie chose asparagus soup and salad; mine was scrambled egg on toast. I drank water.