The Blind Truth

It seems that this really is a country for old men.  Contrary to all expectations the favourite Uncle is now installed in a house round the corner. This will enable him to make a garden at my sisters and come round here with stale packets of biscuits and instant coffee while telling me tales about smoke alarms, fish sticks and moles.

He has been digging flints out of the Sisters’ garden in order to develop a brand new vegetable patch. In doing so he has created a superhighway for moles who have also decided to spend more time round at the Sisters enjoying the veg patch.

The challenge of the moles has now become the principle occupation of the favourite Uncle, who tells me this story on repeat. I don’t mind this and try to respond to each telling of it as if I am hearing it for the first time.

“It’s Uncle here,” he says when I pick up the phone. “I’ve got a very funny story to tell you about moles.”

I listened to the story and when he got to the end, he wondered if he had mentioned who it was that was calling me.

This morning he rang to say he was testing whether or not his phone worked by calling me. Then he told me he was popping in and had a funny story to tell me. “Good,” I said. “I could do with a good laugh because cancer is boring.”

On arrival, Favourite Uncle did a thing he never does and slapped me encouragingly on the shoulder that feels like someone took a blow torch to it, thanks to recent health adventures. I winced and explained that this was the shoulder that felt as if someone had taken a blow torch to it, so best to avoid touching it. Then he did the thing he does that’s designed to cover up the fact he didn’t hear what I just said. He laughed and for good measure he slapped me on the shoulder again, before jetting off to put the parking permit in his car.

We sat around discussing moles and drinking coffee before he said he had to go as his fish sticks were calling. I said, “Don’t touch that shoulder because it feels as if someone has taken a blow torch to it.”

“Jolly good,” he said and for luck, gave it a final wallop.

Then I received an email about the second Favourite Uncle who has been in bed since February, but periodically comes to and asks for a roast dinner. This morning he came to and ordered Sunday lunch with all the trimmings.

I called the Brother because it’s his Birthday today. He went out to lunch and on his way home, fell out of his car doing a wheelchair transfer. It took three hours to drag himself into the house. This was the moment where I was probably supposed to offer up a “Bless you,” to show a bit of compassion for his misfortune, but instead I picked a fight and told him he was an idiot for not having a car and wheelchair that were suited to his needs. I suppose you might say I slapped him in just the spot where it felt that he’d been assaulted with a blow torch.

The evening was spent listening to David Sedaris who is much funnier than moles or car transfer dramas or roast dinners.  Somewhat wryly he observed that in a total death toll of nearly a million from Covid in the USA, he hadn’t chosen one of them, and none of them were related to him.

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Image is Siobhain Santry's drawing of a grey ribbon with The Blind Truth written on it.

There is nothing like sitting in bed in the early morning, with a pot of Earl Grey Supreme, chatting to girlfriends on the phone. I was happily doing just this when the doorbell rang. Short expletive at the prospects of being doorstepped by local politicos or evangelists.

What a faff it was to haul myself into an upright position, stick the now compressed heart shaped cushion, made by the local WI and supplied by the NHS, under my arm, and totter off downstairs to the door. Halfway down the stairs the doorbell rang again. “Yes yes, I’m on my way.”

On the doorstep was a member of the A Team, that much treasured WhatsApp group of girlfriends charged with seeing me through the Big C. “I thought you were coming for lunch,” I mumbled.
“I did say 10.30. I’ve got to go to London later.”
It was all bonus from my point of view. I went off to have a shower and the A Team headed for the kitchen where she made free with vases, in order to make the very best of the beautiful cut flowers from her garden.

We spent the morning happily chatting about the grandchildren. Hers can speak Italian and English and interchange between the two. Mine is a boy and likes to talk about poo.

The doorbell rang again. From the open door blasted the theme tune from the Archers. (That’s the old tune not the new one.) I knew exactly who that was and rolled over on the sofa in a bid for a bit of momentum in order to get to my feet.

There was the FF (former flatmate) and before we knew it, we were hugging and crying and rejoicing, that I am, more or less, in one piece, and she is in my kitchen, having not exactly lied her way through acres of messaging about being stuck in a train tunnel, but not exactly leading me to believe she was in a train racing towards me. In the many joys and trials of our friendship I remember when she was where I am now. That only deepens our ties.

The FF is impressed by the lunch and says so. She broadcasts her appreciation of her fellow A Teamers on the Whattsapp group, along with a critique of the inside of my fridge, which she alleges horrible things about. When my fellow Granny departs the FF sets about fridge renovation.

On the table is an enormous pile of fridge contents. She can’t imagine why so much of what I treasure has survived so long past its sell by date. “The sniff test. “ I’m bullish on this point, but accept that there may be some preserved lemons that are no longer fit for purpose. We compromise and feeling she has luck on her side, she chances her arm. I run out of puff watch the bin fill up.

Once done, she makes a short video of the inside of the fridge and broadcasts it to the A Team, along with a biting critique of what she describes as the European Vegetable Mountain that is sitting on top of the cooker. She asserts it will never fit back into the now sparkling fridge. I protest that it’s all in the angle she chose to film from. She ignores me and takes the rubbish out.

By teatime I can hardly keep my eyes open and make another, less energetic, bid to roll off the sofa for some kind of embrace and a bit of a blub. Whatever the humiliations of my personal habits being revealed to an unsuspecting A Team, love and friendship trumps the revelation that I am a fridge slut.

END

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The best things in life begin with the letter C. They include but, as manufacturers often say, are not limited to: Champagne. Pale imitations won’t do. Canapes which are about the most indulgent way that people, who enjoy a good networking event, sustain themselves while coiffing the afore mentioned drink. Countryfile because I’m a country girl at heart. Cats, and here I can be even more specific and ask everyone to give it up for Clive who coincidentally has a name that begins with the letter C. Chocolate, which doesn’t do it for me but I’m being generous here. Crisps, which definitely do do it for me. Cheese, that king of food. Children, who offer all the promise of what is to come and always lift the spirits. Chatter, and here I should defiantly mention friendship but that doesn’t alliterate in quite the way I had in mind so I’m giving it up for Chums.

It might be cheesy to say so, but there is nothing like love and friendship when the chips are down. I didn’t include chips in my favourite things because I went on a twelve-step programme, in order to give them up. Other vices have persisted.

When it comes to Chums, they are the tops. I’d like to change tack here a bit. I have previously mocked the rise of the Whattsapp Group. The endless offers of other people’s rubbish, free to anyone who wants it, holds no interest to me. There is one Whattsapp group that I offer up early praise for. They are the “A Team”. It’s a Whattsapp group that is all about me and it is stuffed to the gunnels with Chums, all of whom I adore and who I should never want to be without. They are the kindness of friends. Kindness is a word that coincidentally starts with a hard “C” sound just like Cat, and that’s how my friends make me feel right now, like a cat that is enjoying being stroked and indulged and loved far beyond what I could ever reasonably expect.

There are many things to be annoyed about in life. There are things to bring you down. Some of them begin with the letter C; Coughs and Colds are a blight. I’ve spent too long hanging out with two years olds so I know about coughs and colds and must have built up enough resistance to see me through old age. Covid, which I have had and lived to tell the tale. Happily cleaning and chlamydia remain a mystery. Then there is Cancer, defiantly a hard “C”. It’s the “C” word I hoped to avoid, but it has slammed into me and I need a good Cry. I’m learning all about Cancer and Chemotherapy. On the upside I won’t have to worry about rogue hairs on my chin.

The thing about this less than desirable second list is that they have afforded me so much more time to avail myself of all the wonders of the more desirable of the “C” lists. You have to make the best of these things and find as many small joys in life as possible, so now’s the moment to surrender, put my feet up, catch up on all those back editions of Countryfile while guzzling canapes. I think champagne will have to wait.

Thank Goodness for Catch Up TV, another good thing in life that begins with the letter “C”.
Thank goodness for the “A” team, the ever expanding list of girl friends with whom I have laughed and cried and sometimes cried with laughter. They have caught me. That’s another “C” word, and I don’t think I will ever let them go.

END

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Image is Siobhain Santry's sketch of Anna. 

She didn’t get up but indicated the chair for me to sit in. I sat down. She introduced herself and I said how nice it was to meet her. Given the circumstances, I might have happily lived into old age and never felt I’d missed out by not meeting her.

“Now I’ve had this nice letter from your doctor. It’s says your suffering with your eyes.”
I raised my eyebrows. This was probably not the moment for sport but I couldn’t help myself. “No”, I said, sounding suitably bemused.”
“Well it says here that you’ve got a problem with your eyes. What I need to know is if you can see my face.”
In view of the fact we were both wearing face masks this seemed a bit of a wasted question. I didn’t say so. “Is that right? Are you suffering with your eyes?”
“I’m not suffering. There is no suffering involved.”
“But you do have a problem?”
“No, the problem is not mine,” I spat. “The problem is largely other people”.
As soon as the words were out of my mouth I felt a strange mix of satisfaction and regret.

“I’m projecting of course,” she said. “If I couldn’t see much I would be suffering. It would be a problem for me but I can see it’s not a problem for you. But you see, what I need to know is if you can see my face.”
“You think you do, “I persisted tipping into rudeness. “ We’ll only end up in an existential exchange about what the gold standard of being able to see a face is. Since neither of us has any idea of what the other one understands by seeing a face it’s a hopeless conversation so why don’t I just tell you the snell score and you can look it up later. Shall we move on?”
We moved on.

When the copy of the letter she had written to my GP arrived, she had taken the time and the trouble to send me a large print version. Considering I behaved like a terrier, never missing an opportunity to take a bite at the deficiencies of my treatment, I may have to revise my opinion.

When the follow up appointment letter came, that too came in large print. My only complaint is that only half of it made it’s way onto the page. It wasn’t the first half with no second half. In fact, I couldn’t tell you if there ever was a page two because there were no page numbers and no one had signed it. Curiously it was the left side of the letter only. The right side of the letter seemed to have trailed off across the edge of the page into invisibility. How curious to take the trouble to send a critical appointment letter in large print but not to bother to check that it delivered the critical information.

It’s something I might feel the need to raise with “Miss Nat” or possibly even “a member of her tea” when I go to meet yet another stranger on Friday.

Meantime, my email in box is now swilling in emails with uploaded leaflets from Breast cancer Care and a series of NHS leaflets that have been photocopied and turned into pdfs. The trouble is that every email is entitled “Your Scan” so no hint of a clue about what’s in it. As to the pdf’s themselves, they are upside down and the wrong way round and all need page by page rotation, which does not always go according to plan.

Let us hope that this is the only confusion when it comes to the Big C.

END

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Image is Siobhain Santry's drawing of a grey ribbon with The Blind Truth written on it.

The Grand was on his second babycino of the afternoon when he had a lightbulb moment:
“Granny, I don’t think you can see very much can you?”
“You’re right,” I said.
With just a hint of caution he suggested; “Have you thought of wearing glasses?”
“It wouldn’t help,” I explained.
“Not shades on your head but glasses on your face like Mummy.”
“I have tried it….” I began
“Because then you could give me your huge hoover.”
He’d just split the atom.

I’m glad the Grand knows what he wants to make him happy. If it’s playing hoovers with a long cane I’ll go with that. He makes me happy.

I’ve been thinking about what it takes to live a good life, to be happy.

A good nights sleep is the holy grail. I like to go to bed early because early nights bring early starts and that’s the best time of day.

There is nothing like laughter. The Old Bag and I laugh together all the time. Last week I answered the door to her with the words, “Is that a tractor I see before me?” We were hot on the heels of Neil Parish’s parliamentary disgrace. “I’m a John Deer,” she said. “All my gears are working and I just keep on going.” for the next hour we sat on my sofa and improvised tractor jokes. Then we listened to The Wurzels singing “I’ve Got a Brand New Combine Harvester,” while I served up supper.

I get excited at the sight of my beans sprouting and totting up just how much fennel I’ve grown. The smell of lilac gets me every time.

It’s a creative life. For me it’s a bit of basket weaving and the time I spend mucking about with clay. I love a good glaze.

I’ve got the knowledge. I know where every clean loo in London is located. If you find yourself passing one, never waste the opportunity.

Nature is wonderful. Learning bird song has taught me so much about my surroundings.

Where there are bluebells there is wild garlic.

If I have an egg I have a meal. If I have an onion I have soup. I have friends who have no sight and always scratch cook. Nothing beats home cooking.

I’m lucky to have the space to invite my friends round to do a conga as we sing “Come on Islene”.

Worrying doesn’t help. Knowing this doesn’t stop me worrying but it keeps the angst in check.

There is nothing like a cat to lift the spirits and keep the rats at bay.

Better to leave cleaning to those that know what they’re doing.

Love is the business. It comes in many forms. Embrace it.

I’m not a gifted singer but that doesn’t stop me. If I’m feeling off colour, or on form, I sing along to Nina Simone “I’m Feeling Good.” It does the trick.

Hiking is one of the great joys of life. If you can walk and talk at the same time, so much the better. Yesterday I walked and talked for four hours, except when I was slurping water.

Invest in comfortable shoes.

I Rejoice at the miracle of Marmite.

Brushing, flossing and regular dentistry brings reward.

I find the regular consumption of lose leaf Earl Grey tea has kept the engine turning.

Now that I’m an old crone, I’ve embraced elastic. I want a comfortable life.

Always have your dark glasses about your person. On your head is fine. However much I am tempted I am never disposed to gift them to the Grand. I never knew that playing hoovers with a long cane could be so much fun.

END

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Image is Siobhain Santry's sketch of Anna. 

“A pop of colour does the trick”, or so I have been recently instructed. Even the most rudimentary of t-shirts can be dressed up with the addition of an ill-fitting jacket. It might work for Zoom but would it be good enough for real life? Would it work for a real evening out? Experience has taught me that the fish, I know I will order, often comes dressed in butter so it’s wise to give thought to how to dress for splatter.

Into my inbox popped a 15% off voucher, which I entered and bought a blouse I didn’t know I needed. In fact, I bought two blouses that I didn’t know I needed. Both
of them in a size smaller than I really am. Which of these blouses would go well with fish?

On balance, better to go with the one that would suffer less effect from butter. Having once sat opposite a blind diner who ate his buttered asparagus in much the same way that a small boy would suck long strands of pasta off the plate, slapping the strings against the side of his cheeks, I know the reach and devastation of a bit of the old melt. I know just how messy an eater I can be.

It’s an adventure, going out to eat in civilised company, or even not so civilised company. Here I should come clean and say that I’ve possibly given going out, to eat, more thought than I might have done before spending two years at home inhaling kettle crisps and lettuce.
Dressing up felt like a million dollars and I had all my bases covered. A bit of salmon slapped down on some well buttered giant cuscus may not appeal to everyone but the waiter had me at “pink or well done?” No one ever asks this about fish. “Pink” I said licking my lips.
The fish was delicious, the company good and the surroundings comfortable. I was at the point of sitting back in my chair, jacket off to show the best of my bargains, when it began to dawn on me, that the quirky red blob, that I thought had formed a charming variation to the regular repeat of an otherwise regulated floral pattern, was not what it seemed.

If anyone who sat down to lunch with me is reading this, do let me know if your silence was born of a sense of awkwardness or that you just didn’t notice that I was displaying my new dress size. I had left the house with the label still attached.

There is something undignified about walking around with the label still attached to your clothes. How easy it is to confuse one red blob sizing label with another. for anyone who did notice they may have had to do a second take in awe at just how slim I appear to have become.

While your eyes may not deceive you, I may be deceiving myself. I fear the blouse may have been wrongly labelled and to all practical affects, I too was mislabelled. Nothing more fishy about it than that.

I should say that I didn’t suck the fish off the plate, nor was anyone showered in butter, I have taken the blouse to the dry cleaners who remarked on the generosity of the cut.

It’s a good job I also have generous friends who do not judge me for these occasional lapses.

END

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Image is Siobhain Santry's drawing of a grey ribbon with The Blind Truth written on it.

Not that this has ever happened to me, but if I were to find myself in a long and boring zoom call, I might feel inclined to do a bit of online shopping at the same time.

The sort of thing that I might find myself bidding for would be books about working animals. I could work myself into a lava in the search for Lloyd, an illusive police horse, probably long since dispatched to the knackers. If I were to find such a treasure, at an all-inclusive price, I could find myself struggling to say what I really thought in response to a plea for my input. I would have no problem reverting to that tried and tested response, “nothing to add to what has already been said,” or “I think what you think.” Yet all the time I am unable to get Lloyd the Police Horse from my mind, expertly handled by his brave rider with his 1980s haircut.

Who knows why these things happen. I have been unable to get Lloyd out of my tiny mind. Then I had a piece of luck. Danny the Guide Dog could be mine for £1.49 including p&p. I could barely contain myself.

The highlight of teaching the son about how Guide Dogs come into this world and are prepared for their life as a working dog, was obviously the bit about how Danny learnt to poo in just the right spot.

From my vantage point as average height, my sensitivities are never challenged when my chum Radiator commands “busy busy” which is Guide Dog talk for poo on command. My sensitivities were somewhat taken by surprise to find myself examining a photo of Danny mid-way through his ablutions. Here, I must try hard not to apply my human fear that I should find myself photographed doing my ablutions, because Danny the Guide dog probably experienced no such sensitivities. The Son, on the other hand, was thrilled beyond words to be the proud owner of a real-life story featuring a real life dog poo.

I have been accumulating giant font books to read to the Grand. I confess that the print in my “dog eared” copy of Danny the Guide Dog, is rather beyond me these days, but oh how I long to introduce the Grand to the joys of pooing on command.

Once Danny is embedded in his consciousness, I wonder where this will leave the “huge hoover” that we use to make our stately progress round Sainsbury’s, or tap our way round the station with. Could the cane find itself dislodged by a dog?

I’m still hankering after Lloyd. Mist the Sheepdog seems to have Long since disappeared into the fog of memory. Ping Pong the Elephant in headed my way and should make it from Market Harborough by next Tuesday.

If a newer younger Danny ever comes up for sale, I will make a bid. Meantime, all day zoom calls have nearly always had my full attention. This pledge was only once subverted by a job lot of wooden railway track and a vest for the cat, which is what I hope will stop him licking himself raw after being in yet another fight.

Let us hope that I am never subject to any kind of digital check that may reveal my shopping habits and the moments at which they take place. I’m not sure how I will explain away the industrial quantities of rinse aid let alone the axe, bought in error twice. My shopping habits may be a bit on the unusual side but they have seldom disappointed. The exception being the William Morris pillowcases that turned out to printed with pictures of He Man.

END

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Everyone loves a bit of personal administration. Don’t they?

There is nothing like changing arrangements for paying your rates charges or changing your direct debits. You can do it on-line and if that fails, well it fails. You will be accumulating charges, with no apparent means of stopping them, from here until way beyond next Monday.

Searching the website for telephone details will not help because it’s a secret. The only numbers that are published are the ones that tell you that it will be quicker for “YOU” if you do this on-line. Because no one has ever sent you an account number to enter, you are immediately rejected and sent back to the customer services number that tells you to go to the website.

At this point you may find that you become highly agitated and having hammered in the phone number one last time, someone answers the phone. In your astonishment you might exclaim your relief and tell your tale of woe at which point the call handler explains that rudeness wont’ be tolerated and puts the phone down. I don’t know what that’s like. It’s never happened to me.

One of my more pro-active communicants, sends me text messages to remind me that I should call the number in the message to get a flu jab appointment. I do as I’m told but the number doesn’t work because it’s the wrong number. So I make the trek up the road to be told that no appointments have been released and wont’ be until Monday. I’m told that the number is correct. Guess how I spent my Monday?

The verified phone number was incorrect so I called the surgery where a message told me that it would be quicker for me if I went online. Online rejected my log in details and sent me a link to create a new password that never arrived. I put on my trainers and plodded up the road to make the appointment in person.

All became clear. The number was correct it was just that half of it was missing. There were no new appointments available until Monday when I should call the correct number (not forgetting to insert the missing half) and press option two. Lots of people had been pressing option one in response to the instruction that it was option one for flu jabs.
“If you listen carefully it’s option two. It just sounds like option one” the receptionist said. I rested my head on her desk. While conceding nothing, she took my point and went on to explain that all flu jabs were an unreliable bus ride away. I raised and lowered my head onto her desk. My cane was folded up on her desk and having not accounted for it, it span off in a protest of its own.

The receptionist suggested I call at 8am on Monday and if I couldn’t get through I’d have to keep trying. “No” I said. “This is not reasonable”. She took my point and would get a colleague to jab me now. My gratitude was short lived because I had to wait until the end of afternoon childhood vaccinations. This was a clinic at which everyone who got a jab screamed.

The nurse who jabbed me said it was good that I had listened and got a flu jab. “Listened?” I barked. “What do you mean?”
“Done as you were told.”
“It’s more shambles than dictatorship,” I strained.
“Well I love the NHS,” she said.

I’m due a health MOT. The first available appointment is 6 weeks away and its phone only these days. I spent the evening on the council website for a bit of light relief.

END

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Image is Siobhain Santry's sketch of Anna. 

The Baby Grand has arrived. I was so moved by the miracle of new life, that I went to an actual shop and purchased a small floppy rabbit suitable for babies under three months old. For clarity, this was not a real rabbit, but a stuffed toy rabbit.

Then my largesse got the better of me and I decided that what every baby brother needs is a Superhero older brother, so I invested in a Batman outfit, suitable for children aged 2-4 years. The Grand may not be the Baby Grands idea of a Superhero but he’s definitely mine.

“How does Batman’s mummy call him in for his food?” I asked the Grand.
“Get your food,” the Grand shouted as he took off his clothes and we all jumped in to tell him that there was no need to take his pants off.
“Dinner, dinner, dinner BATMAN!” I trotted out to the rhythm of the Batman theme music.
There was a small hiatus in proceedings as the Grand went in search of the Bat ears that were a bit on the snug side and had pinged off. He pulled his Bat ears down as hard as he could. They swivelled round his toddler head until his Bat ears were out of line and he was more of a Snark than a Superhero.
“Why/” he said, looking truly bemused.
“Well, when you eat a meal, sometimes it’s called Dinner.”
“No” he said and went off to speak to the DiL. Once enveloped by the safety of her lap he asked her “What does Batman’s Mummy say?”
“I don’t know, what does Batman’s Mummy say?” the Dil answered.
“I don’t know either,” said the Grand.

The joke may be a concept that has been a little prematurely launched on my part but I have other plans.

In the latest batch of photos the Son has uploaded, there is a very good photos of the Grand and I playing football. In true elite athletic style, the Grand is blowing a bubble and I am providing some touchline encouragement with my eyes shut.

Always alert to the possibility of new opportunities and keen to try new things in life, I have seen the main chance and I’m taking it.

Ole Gunnar Solskjaer may have enjoyed a long and loyal career with Manchester United, but I think it’s all over now. I know an excellent blind Goal Ball player who coaches his son’s sighted under twelves team. They’ve enjoyed a couple of good seasons and so I see no reason why ManU couldn’t be the lucky beneficiary of this approach. It’s worked for the Harpenden juniors.

The coach I’m thinking of is fully occupied but I photograph well on the touchline with my eyes open or shut. I know a lot about ducking and diving, dodging and weaving and I can handle difficult questions from the media. My ability to suck my breath in through my teeth in moments of high drama would televise well. Is Grandstand still airing or Saturday pm?

I don’t know anything about football but if we let ignorance get in the way of progress, nothing in life would happen. When it comes down to it, it’s all a leap of faith.

I’m wondering what the chances are of getting the Glazer family to commit themselves to a new uber league for Goal ball. Murrey Walker would do a great commentary, if he were still alive. I wonder if I’ve got my starter wires crossed there. Anyway, Gary Linekar would provide great match analysis, and since it’s in such a good cause, I’m sure he’d bring the crisps

As Robin might say. “Holy margarine Batman.”

END

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Image is Siobhain Santry's drawing of a grey ribbon with The Blind Truth written on it.

It might have been the colour of nobility and power in the world of the ancients but purple been on the back foot in public life over recent years. It’s not fashionable to wear your ambition on your sleeve these days. Purple though, is making a comeback.

No longer are old men reduced to exercising a love of luxury in their secret choice of purple underpants. These days it’s everywhere. Not underpants, but Purple. It’s out and proud in a rebrand that symbolises spirituality, creativity and dignity.

It’s not just chocolate that comes swathed in purple. The promise of a good night’s sleep is also delivered in purple. You would think that this would be unmissable. Unmissable because purple should be easy to spot.

Spotting the promise of sleep is rather easier for some of us than others. If you are dependent on Google doing the spotting, you should prepare yourself for a long night trudging about because Google likes to cluster locations. It’s easy to find yourself in the right place but the wrong location. I know because it happened to me. I spent half an hour working out my route and checking I had got the right destination amongst the many on offer. I got it wrong.

It’s easy to get lulled into a false sense of security. There was the trademark purple façade but there was no booking. Trailing through emails that had come via a third party several weeks ago, I found the booking reference and got redirected to another branch, a two minute walk away. It wasn’t difficult to find but once inside, it was another matter altogether.

It was late. The computer was down, and everyone was a bit on the grumpy side. I got in the queue except it wasn’t the queue. After fifteen minutes of standing next to a hen party from Liverpool as they chatted away, it dawned on me that as far as they could see, I had randomly tuned into them. There I was watching an episode of reality tv in a hotel foyer. Who knows what kind of a kick they imagined I was getting out of it. It wasn’t the queue.

It was definitely past my bed time by the time I managed to check in. I had my cane on the counter. The receptionist handed me a key-card and pointed. “Over there” she mumbled. I asked for help. There was a bit of tutting and some burbling then someone came to show me to my room.

I slept well. Probably helped as much by a good supper and lashings of plonk as it was by the purple promise of a good night’s sleep. In the morning I didn’t hang about. I went to check out, but reception was deserted. After a bit of bumbling about a voice said. “Can I help you?”
Then he pointed at an empty space at about waist height. “Key deposit,” he instructed.

In the middle of reception was an invisible clear plastic box. It was as if someone had left their rubbish floating in mid-air. “Everything alright?” he said in a tone that betrayed his reticence at asking. “A bit of help in knowing where things were and how to check out would have been helpful.” I twiddled my cane for effect.
“That’s because no one told us.”
“They did,” I snipped, twirling the cane like a majorette.
“No they didn’t” he insisted.
“How do you know that?”
“If we’d known we would have helped you. Next time you have to tell us.”

Down the road I ordered a breakfast bun. It arrived completely empty. There are time when some things are best left unsaid.

END

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