Well as the builders had cleaned up after themselves, I can see that most of this week will be spent doing more of it and tidying the ground floor. This morning I made a start on the kitchen.
Jacqueline phoned me to ask me to participate in a charity walk in Lincoln. Unfortunately this is to take place on the next bank holiday when I will not be available. While we were talking, with my head sticking out of the attic window where I receive the most reliable signal, a small bird, with bright yellow heraldic markings on a brown ground, settled on the lichen covered tiles over the bathroom roof. I said I wished I had my camera in my hand rather than my mobile phone.
My sister mentioned that she has an appointment for neurological testing because of back pain. This reminded me of my own experience in search of a diagnosis for my problems with my left shoulder and hip. In order to check the functioning of my neural paths, I was attached to a machine fitted with electrodes that relayed current to my body, and intermittently, no doubt for sake of variation, subjected to sharp needle pricks. While this was going on, a woman devoid of any identifying hospital clothing, entered the room and began speaking to the technician about another, named, patient. I do not wish to indicate that the woman was not fully clad, which was more than I was as I lay on the bed in my underpants. She wore civvies.
Continuing to administer acute pain, which he had assured me was a good sign, the man responded to his visitor. This, to me, seemed a bit out of order.
Looking up at my uninvited guest who, had, until then,not given me as much as a glance, I said: ‘Excuse me. It may have escaped your notice, but I am lying here receiving electric shocks and having pins stuck in me. Would you please go away?’. She did. Without a word.
David told me that 250 people turned up to Le Code Bar’s first anniversary party just after I had left on my last visit. It has been well earned. As an example, today’s lunch consisted of plentiful tasty tomato and noodle soup; a succulent quiche with a well-dressed salad; 
tender steak and chips; and a mousse coated with maple sauce and floating in creme anglais, or custard to you, Jackie, that blended well with the paper table mat.
A group of English people behind me were celebrating the birthday of another David. In his honour, David played a recording of the excruciatingly embarrassing Marilyn Monroe’s version of Happy Birthday sung at an event in honour of President John F. Kennedy. It was not embarrassing for the bar’s diners, who enjoyed the gesture.
Laurie Graves
