The Blind Truth

I’m incandescent with rage. It might be more accurate to say that I’m florescent with rage because I can feel my colour rising.

It’s not that a lack of access to an on-street parking permits will result in the towing away of my hugely expensive car. I don’t have one to tow away. I’m much more concerned that my friends will stop popping in for cups of tea and even the odd glass of wine because they are afraid their old wrecks will be towed away on the back of a council truck and that it will cost them more to get their cars back than their cars are worth.

I’ve just been onto the new web-based “renewal of permit” site that my local council have provided now that they seem to have closed all their offices and shut down their phones. It’s a public health initiative that has sent my blood pressure rocketing.

I had to log in three times before the system would let me complete the form. Luckily for me the form was pretty much filled in and with screen magnification on I could see that this was all in order. But where was the button to confirm my purchase? It was lurking behind an icon that lives at the bottom of my screen, so it was invisible. I wondered if that might be the case so switched magnification off in the hunt for Red October, that remained invisible now that magnification was switched off.

Then I had a go at uploading proof of residency. My combined utilities came to nearly £80.00 last month. It’s a good job I’ve invested in wool as I feared I could be sitting here for a long time grappling with technology.

In the end I went back to the home page where I was asked to log in again. I logged in and then called the number on the bottom of the screen for help. A slightly tense voice read through a menu of seven possible areas the council thought I might want help with. Parking was not amongst them.

I’m not at all surprised about the warning that the council will not tolerate abuse or rudeness. I don’t find it hard to imagine a multitude of ways in which I might be rude or abusive once I’m put through to an operator. I stay on the line as instructed but the line goes dead. I try again. The line goes dead again.

I fired off an email explaining that the online application process doesn’t work with my magnification switched on. In case anyone suggests that switching it off might help, I explain that the process is invisible to me, and can someone call me back or send email confirmation that my application has worked.

I’ve had an email explaining that the council are experiencing high call and email volumes so I will need to exercise patience. In the meantime, if I want to sign up to the new garden waste scheme, I can do so by following the link to the new online sign up. They say it’s also the quickest way to report a missed bin collection. The big news is that in the event of wanting to report loss or damage to council property, there’s a hot line you can call.

In the interests of research, I called the number and would you believe it? There are real people at the council looking after council property. Good to know the service ethos is still alive, just, even if the hunt for Red October is lost.

I’m reading Kafka, just for laughs, and marvelling at how art mirrors real life.

END

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Image is Siobhain Santry's sketch of Anna. 

“Let’s go to the supermarket and buy oats so we can make flapjacks,” I proposed. The Grand moved like grease lightening.

I think it a prerequisite that any trip to the shops should be made fully clothed and in shoes. Sensing that I was unlikely to yield on this point he sat down, stuck his foot out and handed me a shoe.

“Hold Granny’s hand” the DiL instructed. He nodded.
“Hold my hand and don’t let go,” I reinforced.
At the end of the road, I flicked open the cane ready for crossing. The Grand used his free hand to grip the cane. ”Hoover” he said. His day was getting better by the minute.

We stood on the side of the road while the Grand made groaning noises and mimed a bit of hoovering. “Let go please,” I said, then instantly regretted my instruction. He’d let go of me before he’d give up his hoover. “Keep holding my hand,” I said. Perhaps this would be the moment when his toddler bubble burst and he realised the inconsistencies of adults. He looked thoughtful but gripped harder.

We’d been in the supermarket about 4 seconds when the Grand picked up a packet of biscuits. “We’re not getting those,” I said, “because we’re getting oats to make flapjacks.”
He clasped the biscuits tightly to his chest. “I want biscuits,” he said. His resistance was not high. He was not well placed to keep a grip on the hoover and the biscuits. I put them back on the shelf and we began our slow progression with me doing the blinky bob in the search for oats, and him making growling and swooshing noises as we juddered back and forth up the isles, miming a really good work out with a hoover.

At the till the Grand reached his hand over the counter to pay and was asked if he’d like a sticker. “Yes” he said. Then he said “Tankoo” and handed me the oats and the stickers .
“Let go of my cane and I’ll show you how it works.” He let go. Still, I had a child in one hand, oats tucked under the other arm and a cane in my free hand.

At home the Grand was ready to give a demonstration on long cane technique. No one else was quite braced for the experience, but he was easily distracted.

What was left of the flapjack mix, after much testing, went in the oven. Looking at the finished article, the outcome seemed disproportionate to the effort but that’s love for you. Nothing is too much bother.

At the park the Grand said, “I love you Granny.” I felt myself tearing up and said, “I love you too.” Then the Grand said, “I love my snack.” We sat down on a bench and he said “I love that dog.” I looked through my tears into oblivion and agreed it was a very fine dog and asked him to tell me all about that dog, which he did. He put his toddler arm around me and I gave him a kiss and got all teary again. “I’m happy,” he said. “Me too,” I said.

Then the Grand slid down from the bench and standing in front of me, kicked me in the shins. “oweee,” I said. “What did you do that for?”
“Fun,” he hooted, and kicked me again.
“that’s not funny,” I protested.
“It is funny,” he said, laughing with delight. Then heading off across the park with me in hot pursuit he shouted “Run Granny. Run.”

The great thing about oats, is that they are a slow-release energy food which means, unlike the biscuit, you can run for longer.

END

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The Son and the DiL are having a night off. They are going to wear grown up clothes, for possibly the very last time in a couple of decades, before driving half way across the south of England to attend a wedding, on a Wednesday.

I am now in training to step in and offer soothing words when the inevitable happens and the Grand wakes up just as I am reaching the limit of my ability to stay awake. At this point he will inevitably begin to cry. The cry will turn into sobs as he chokes on the words, “I want Mama.” All my Granny skills will be called upon. The greatest of which is a tried and tested soothing technique in which The Grand commands, between sobs, “Pat bum bum.” In desperation, I do as commanded while I sit awkwardly, shoulder stretched and aching and back beginning to seize up. This could be a big physiotherapy bill.

Training means many things: it means going to pick the Grand up from nursery a couple of times, just to be sure I know what I’m doing. In view of the amount of parental hounding a two-year-old is capable of at the mere suggestion that I might turn up, no advance warning was given. The Grand was sufficiently impressed at my presence that he broke into a run, arms outstretched. His greeting was euphuisive. “where Bob and Clive?” he enquired.
“They’re at home, but they send their love, I said, picturing cats with speech bubbles.
“Oh no.” Then he let go and wandered off to go and collect his art work which he handed to me to carry. I tucked my cane under my arm, but it was too late. He’d spotted it.
“Oh wow,” he said, “The massive hoover.” He’s not one to have trouble thinking how to play hoovers with just about anything. This Granny is never without one.

Me, the Grand and the massive hoover set off under supervision. We made a scheduled regular stop at the end of the road to admire free flying budgies that were variously perched on a run of net curtain in someone’s front room. I didn’t see them myself but felt “vacuumed” into the budgie vortex and agreed that budgies are “beautiful” although wondered about the effects of free defecation on soft furnishings.

As we made it home, the rain came down and we all got wet. “Biscuit” the Grand said with quavering lip. Everyone knows that whatever the question, biscuits are the answer and should you drop your biscuit, the answer to the ensuing mess is obviously a massive hoover, which I happened to have folded up in my bag. With a swift manoeuvre of the zip, the entire contents were now on the floor and the massive hoover being swished into a state of readiness before being dropped in favour of the afore mentioned biscuit, which has to be eaten sitting down at the table.

“Cheers” I said, knocking my cup of tea against the biscuit.
“Cheers,” said the Grand before being pulled back from an intentional biscuit drop, then angling for a swift reposition on the back of the high chair. “No,” I said with my serious face.
He pushed. I was firm. He pushed some more. I was adamant.
“Have you finished your biscuit?” the Son asked. He was resolute. Toddlers roaming about with biscuits will end badly. He had finished and was ready to suck the moisture out of a face flannel. Then he got down from the table.

I need not worry that it will be me that walks half-digested biscuit across the floor. Thank goodness for the massive hoover.

END

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

My friend the Doctor, the one who wore her contact lenses in the wrong eyes for longer than she could reasonably be excused for, is a keen wild swimmer. I watched a film about Hampstead Pond and ever since then I thought I’d like to get into it.

The Doctor offered to take me, not to Hampstead Pond but a lake near Andover in a location I am keeping secret. She even said she could lend me a wetsuit and a swimming hat, but not goggles, so I went online and ordered a pair. They shimmered like mirrors. I took a photo of myself in them and sent the Doctor a selfie entitled, “how to suck your own eyes out.” She replied that they looked fine to her but “between us you have to peel the film off that says, “remove film”.

My swimming suit is prone to filling up with air it’s so old, but no need to buy a new one if the Doctor was lending me a wet suit. On the other hand, better check in to make sure nothing is left to chance. “All good. We get changed in the car park. should be a chilled session” she text. “That better not be code for cold,” I pushed back. “Na, nineteen degrees at least,” she reassured. “By the by, ignore the pike. It’s very small.”
“You never said anything about a pike!”
“It’s a baby and swims away…mostly”.
“I’m worried. I don’t like pike.”
“I predict you won’t see it.”
I predicted she was right as I envisaged myself being stalked and sucked under by the baby pike.

In the car park everyone stood by their open car boots and put on enormous towelling ponchos. I was perplexed. Surely the idea was to undress and get wet before drying. “I just assumed you’d have one,” said the doctor. I somehow lost the stitched-up bath towels, my Granny made me, to change under on the beach. It was the seventies. We just stripped off.

When my companions revealed themselves, they were all wearing competition style swimsuits and hats. Their goggles weren’t mirrored, and they all had waterproof timers. I was in what might be described as a lose fitting ensemble with scope for further movement.
“Did you bring a wet suit?” I asked. She had not. The peril of my situation was now fully revealed.

“Nice and slowly into the water,” our coach said soothingly as the cold water made itself know. “that’s lovely,” he said. Then just as my companions were coming up for air after full emersion, and I was considering a light shoulder splash, he blew a whistle, and we were off.
“Take your time,” he proffered. Little chance of not having my time taken as I started to move backwards in the slipstream of fast starts my fellow swimmers left. “Can you see the buoy at the end there?….Just swim round that then on to the next one and so on.”

In the time it took me to swim a kilometre everyone else managed four. I was faster at getting dressed.

In the pub everyone congratulated me on a sterling effort. I felt small. Then someone piped up to tell the tale of their cross-channel swim. She had a heart attack a mile out from Dover. She was gutted and ended up in Ashford General. I’ve been there. I was gutted for her.

I must say that you can work up quite an appetite cold water swimming. I finished the Doctors chips for her. I’ve ordered a towelling changing robe, new swimming hat and a swimsuit. I like wild swimming, but not against the clock and not with handstands.

END

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She didn’t say so, but my kitchen is a bit of a disgrace. What the Goddaughter did say was “Yeah, the doors are all chipped. It looks nasty. I could paint those for you.”
“How difficult is it to paint kitchen doors?”
“Not difficult,” she said. Then she shrugged and stuck out her bottom lip.
I’m not slow on the uptake. “What do you mean by not difficult?” I asked.
“Not difficult,” she shrugged again.
“Let me put it another way, how complicated, how expensive and how long will it take?”

The answer was that it would involve a multiplicity of tasks, trips to the paint shop, Saturday morning early starts, two weeks of having no handles and not being able to touch the paintwork before the sealer was applied, and just as expensive as buying new doors. It wasn’t going to be a paint job then. This would be an uptake of 25% off new kitchen doors if I hurried while stocks lasted, rather than the agony of something that was not difficult but extremely inconvenient.

I sent the builder a text to ask if he might be up for the job of replacing the kitchen cupboard doors. He didn’t reply, which I took to mean he hadn’t received my request, so I called him. He didn’t answer the phone, which I took to mean he was busy just at that moment. When he didn’t respond to my various messages I wondered if he’d ever got round to listening to his voicemails so I text him again.

The next voice I heard was Malcolm, who said I clearly hadn’t listed to the silence. The builder was far too busy and had asked Malcolm if he could do the job. I was delighted. Malcolm and I love a healthy exchange of views. “Is this going to be a ten minute row or a five minute row?” he’ll often ask.
“What’s the point?” I glibly retort. “you’re not listening anyway.”

Then I got a call from the builder. He said that he was really really really busy. Then he yawned, very loudly, just to reinforce the point. “Listen,” he said. I tell you what it is Anna. My sister is gonna send you a text in a minute. Her husband’s cousin’s friend has had a baby and the baby is blind. Can you talk to my sister please. No pressure.”
“Of course,” I said. “Has the baby got any sight or none at all?”
“I don’t know. I wasn’t listening.” Then he yawned again.
“Boy or girl?” I ventured.
“I don’t know. I wasn’t listening.”
“When was the baby born?……” I love a new born.
“My sister knows. I wasn’t listening.” This might have been code for “You’re not listening.”

The text arrived and I picked up the phone and called the builder’s sister. The baby is nearly a year old and she’s a girl. Then I listened.

The baby is a baby is a baby. The parents are the parents are struggling to get their heads round the idea that perfection comes in all kinds of packages. Perfection need not have twenty-twenty vision. She’s statistically unlikely to lament the loss of “taxi driver” as an employment opportunity, but they don’t know that. If only someone would listen to what they are asking for.

In my outrage at this state of affairs, I committed myself to go to see them. When it came to giving location details I wasn’t really listening. That’s how I have committed myself to an eight hour round trip. I’m thinking of offering zoom.

The Goddaughter turned up and said the new doors looked good but then again they would have looked good painted.

END

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Image is Siobhain Santry's sketch of Anna. 

The Goddaughter, and her various assistants, have been helping to keep my house in order. Reputation is everything and without it, she says, she would not have a cleaning round the envy of the most energetic of entrepreneurs. She keeps her clients.

Our shared desire to live in a clean house is one of those bonding experiences that she ensures and I take her word for. Taking her word for it is not the same as taking her literally. When she declares it’s ‘all done” I am not so stupid as to imagine perfection and don’t judge her or her numerous assistants against an impossible standards. There are limits and while I think it’s probably clean enough, I really can’t judge for myself. The odd cat biscuit still goes crunch under foot.

The Goddaughters various assistants have not always cut me the same slack. They are rather prone to taking things literally and judging me accordingly. The last one refused to come back because, “of your job”. The Goddaughter explained what she knew.

The assistant went on a date with someone who knew me and told her that if he were her, so to speak, he would not want clean in my house because he happened to know I worked for the secret service and was licenced to kill. Indeed, he knew for a fact I had killed. The closest I’ve got to anyone licenced to kill, is breakfast in the canteen at Bishopsgate Police Station. More a “lining up to eat as much as you can” experience than “Line of Duty”.

I might suggest that he was confusing me with that well-known fast car driving, sharp shooting, sniper, Brother Silas. Like me, poor old Brother Silas was a bit misrepresented. Neither of us could hit a barn door at anything further than six feet, let alone drive a fast car at speed through Paris. Just because we are on the light side of white doesn’t mean we carry such a huge grudge against people with pigment that we want to polish them off.

If my generosity were really being stretched I should say the Goddaughters assistant’s date got confused. Could he have muddled up notions of Public Service with the Secret Service. Or possibly he got his wires crossed when he heard about the exploits of the “Likely Cats” Bob and Clive, my small game hunters who turned out to be responsible for the stink behind the sofa. They were just doing what cats do and I never knew the bodies were there. Maybe the Goddaughter’s assistant could smell the rotting flesh and that tipped her over the edge.

The most likely explanation is that her date just got bored and thought he’d have a bit of fun at someone else’s expense. What yarn could he spin and still be believed? Quite a long one as it turned out.

The yarn he span was nearly as long as the threads that Bob and Clive have thoughtfully liberated from the front of my sofa. One more good yank from my own resident killers and the once pristine façade of my furniture will be revealed for what it is. Not that brilliantly constructed but well upholstered. Much like it’s owner.

Things may not always be what they seem. Bob and Clive are cute but will kill on a whim. Being whiter than white I wouldn’t dream of trying, I don’t judge those boys for their murderous ways and still clean up after them.

Reputation is everything and my killer cats are universally admired. I, on the other hand, appear to be dammed. Without my good reputation, even the cleaner has dumped me.

END

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

I got the call on Tuesday. I’m not talking literally. It came in a text message and instructed me to follow the link to online booking. I did as I was told but it didn’t like my text enlargement. It would be a best guess then.

If I had more of an eye for detail, I might not have made such a hash of it.

A ten-minute car journey could be anything from twenty minutes or an hour on, that Emperor of transport, the bus. I split the difference and allowed forty minutes.
In the best tradition of royalty, the bus kept me waiting. It kept me waiting for longer than three buses were timetabled for. There was quit a little clutch of mask clad passengers poised to jostle for the door when it finally opened.

I did what I always do. I went to sit down in the first available seat. “Not here,” said a muffled voice. On to the next seat then. “You can’t sit here,’ said another muffled voice as she banged her knuckles vigorously on the window. Where was I to sit? Third time lucky.

I’ve lost track of “the rules”. The variations that appear and disappear by way of poster and hazard tape are mysterious. The almost universal dread that travellers have of a stranger plonking themselves down next to them, may turn out to be a thing of the past, post pandemic. Getting the nerve up to repel advances for anyone hoping for a seat is now practised by even the most reticent of folk.

Busy with the anti-fog spray that is a necessity for dark glasses while wearing a mask, I managed to miss my stop and had to walk back. It was an hour since I left home. I was late.

In the vaccination centre no one seemed worried about tardy timekeeping. “What’s your name today?”
“Same as yesterday,” I said, unable to control myself and instantly regretting it.
“Can’t seem to find you. Are you sure it’s today?”
“I’m sure,” I said with all the confidence of someone who has already banked the money.
“Could you just check your tezt message for me?’
Who would know how easy it is to confuse a five with a six?
“That was yesterday,” she said. “Don’t worry. All sorted.”

“Come along,” a looming voice said, making a play to hold hands. I froze. “I’ll look after you,” she said, giving my resisting hand a good tug. I didn’t say so, but while my failure to see what was in front of could not be helped, I wondered about holding hands with anyone dressed like that. What I did say was “you lead I’ll follow.”

Once jabbed, a nice volunteer came with me to the exit. “See you in 12 weeks,” she said. None of us could see what was plainly in front of us. At least I have an excuse. I’d been Gok Wan’d and was ten years younger. All the stresses of the afternoon ebbed away.

What was in front of me next was Sainsburys. I went in to commit myself to 19 crimes, (a nice little cabernet blend). It would be deliciously accompanied by thinly sliced, lightly salted roasted veg. I picked a bag dusted with something that said it tasted of cheese but wasn’t. Then I went wild. Thinly sliced roast potatoes were on a bogof. The second bag was doused in sea salt and cracked pepper -flavouring. I paid. I saw the number 3 and headed off on the number 5 until I realised my mistake and got out to walk home.

My crimes were delicious and the veg turned out to be crisps.

END

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I’ve had THE jab. Jabs and jibes were the theme of the day.

The mysteries of temporary signage that declare where to go, remained just that, a mystery. It was a good job the Physio Witch had provided fulsome direction of how to access a community hall that was at the far end of a Sainsbury’s car park, behind a doctor’s surgery with a walkway to it, so grand, it rivalled the spot where I keep the ever-expanding number of council issued wheelie bins. I won’t dwell on that here.

The sun was low in the sky and as I ambled about outside Sainsburys, I inadvertently ambled into Sainsburys through the “exit only” door. I know this because someone told me so. A quick circuit of the special offers and I left by the route by which I had entered, pacing about between temporary arrows that directed me back and forth across the car park. Eventually the penny dropped. It must be where no arrow dared to go.

I’m not surprised that arrows didn’t dare to head for the Covid vaccination Centre. The arrows might not have been up to the job, but one marshal had an interesting take on giving directions and could give any arrow a good run for its money.
“Madam,” a small florescent man said authoritatively. “I need you to go left.” So, I went left.

I’ve never come off best when faced with a wall. This was no different. “Not there,” he continued. “Obviously when I said go left, I was indicating you should bare left.”
“OK,” I said. “I’m baring left, now where?”
“Listen to me. Listen to me. I said bare left.”
“I’m baring left.”
“I’m trying to help you. I’m indicating which way to go. Look at me.”
“it’s no good indicating. I have no idea what you’re doing,” I snipped waving the cane about a bit.
“I’m trying to be helpful. You’re not listening to what I’m telling you.”
I lost it. “You’re not making any sense. Just describe where I need to go.”
He jabbed his finger in my face. “Listen. I’m trying to help you but you’re not listening.” Then he took hold of my arm. I didn’t budge.

Exasperation is usually born of a loss of control. “Tell me then, just tell me. I’m trying to be helpful but you’re not listening. What do you want me to do?” Yep, he was exasperated.
“I’ll just follow you.”
“Well why didn’t you just say that in the first place. You don’t listen.”
We both took a breath.
“Mask over your nose,” he instructed.
“It is over my nose.”
“No, it isn’t,” he said, adjusting my mask so that my already steamy world fogged over completely. Not much chance of following him now.

I can’t pretend there was much to laugh about in this nasty little exchange.

“Do you have any allergies?” said the nice young man in scrubs.
“Brazil nuts,” I said.
“And what happens if you eat a Brazil nut?”
“My throat swells up and I can’t breathe.”
“Do you carry an EpiPen?”
“No. I just don’t eat Brazil nuts.”
“So not that serious then.”
I suppose these matters are all relative. It depends on your view of asphyxiation.

My view of asphyxiation is that of the many ways that one can die unable to breath I wouldn’t pick any of them. It’s why I’ve always made a point of avoiding arrest. It’s the reason I don’t eat Brazil nuts. It’s the reason that I went for THE jab and let uninvited rudeness and touching go.

Building my metaphorical immunity has kept me healthy all these years and so will THE jab.

END

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

There are not many winners in the time of Corona Virus, but dog breeders seem to be amongst them. This has generated a proliferation in the extendable dog lead. The extendable dog lead, which is my enemy, is not the only thing that has proliferated. Where there are extendable dog leads there are frequently dogs attached to the other end, busy relieving themselves of their breakfast. Where once there was breakfast, there is inevitably dog poo.

Since lockdown begun the explosion of dogs and their poo has made its presence felt in ways that I never knew were possible. While cleaning up after your dog is the gold standard, I understand that even the best of dog owners get caught short.

In parts of the Balkans people hang strands of colourful fabric and ribbon to designated trees to remember their dearly departed by. These colourful expressions may not be to everyone’s taste, but they are relatively benign compared to newer customs that appear to have taken root, or should I say, taken flight.  In parts of my local walking spot, people hang dog poo in black bags from the trees and forget all about it. I wish I knew who they were, so I could return their abandoned dog poo to them.

I know I’m not alone in not seeing the poo from the trees but honestly, no one expects to be swiped in the face with Labrador poo. I’m making assumptions here, based on the statistical chances. I don’t want to sound mean. I love a Labrador as much as the next person, but there are more Labradors in the world than I remember there ever being before lockdown began.

It might not have been a Labrador but it was a big dog that eats a wet food diet or had an upset stomach.  It could have been a golden retriever or even a Great Dane. It defiantly wasn’t a Yorkshire Terrier. Whatever it was it probably wasn’t a working dog.

However clever the guide dog, or any working dog for that matter, it would seem an unlikely use of canine time, to stop for long enough to bag and suspend their own excrement from a tree, unless I am missing something here. I have not taken the particular talents of the “sniffer” dog into account, it’s true, but I don’t suppose that even they are disposed to the bag and suspend method of poo disposal.

I suppose that given the rise in popularity of hanging dog poo from trees, it was inevitable that someone was going to have to face up to it sooner or later. I only wish it had not been me.

The poo bag is designed to be tightly tied and taken home. I put the lack of knots down to user failure. That’s the person not the dog. I’d go further and say that no rural idle, no common, wood or forest is enhanced by poo bags blowing gently in the breeze or flapping about in the shrubbery.

Coming face to bag with the unintended consequences of the rise in popularity of the dog and hitherto unthought of methods of poo disposal, I cannot help but wonder if the many changes to the way we live will stand the test of time.  I’m hoping we all buy less clothes to dispose of in landfill, that the banana has finally found its true vocation in the loaf, that commuting times are a thing of the past, and that my personal commitment to daily walking remains undimmed. Poo suspended form trees is no way to live.

While dog breeders have been making a killing, the by-product of their success is killing me.

END

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Image is Siobhain Santry's drawing of Anna ducking away from a bag of dog poo hanging on a low tree branch. 

The superlight walking poles have really come into their own since round three of lockdown. I’ve spent the last year perfecting my cane and pole techniques and I’ve been feeling pretty smug about where they have landed. I’m choosing my words carefully here.

I could never have imagined converting the cane or the pole in a way that you might hanker after a nice bit of cashmere or a beautiful silk, but I have caught myself on line shopping for both. It might be a sign of old age. I’ve noticed that I’ve also started talking to the Son about people he doesn’t know and never will. I do this as he’s turning puce with pleasure as he explains how to switch my autoreply on and off for the umpteenth time. This morning I sent him a photo of a graveyard because I thought the view was rather nice.

It could be that all this pole and cane action is not encroaching age but the shift from a cerebral way of getting around to one that is more sensory, more rooted in my body. This theory is supported by a range of what you might describe as ancillary shopping that has seen a serious upgrade in shoes. I’m absolutely certain this is an exciting development and not a view of old age.

Whether or not these advances could be described as old lady or not, I’ve been feeling content in where things have landed. Still watching my language.

I was just coming through a kissing gate when I noticed that there were people on the other side. Old habits die hard. I popped both poles into my right hand and assuming the flat ground on the left that was there last week was still there. It was not. I forgot about the rain. My brief affair with mud has reminded me that the old ways don’t work any more.

As me and my muddy badge of shame meandered home, a new phenomenon, which neither pole nor cane could account for, made itself known. It’s called the “back swipe”. This is different from the side swipe because there is not a barbed comment to be heard nor did anyone sidle up to me, knock me off my feet, then make a run for it.

The “back swipe” is part of the ever-changing landscape that the cane cannot alert me too, since the cane is designed to allow sensory feedback from the ground. How can any of us anticipate what is to be delivered in mid-air?

The “back swipe” is a speciality hazard delivered by reversing teenage boys in shorts, often in the dead of winter, holding on to bicycles, with large thermally insulated boxes strapped to their backs containing food. Still watching my language.

An encounter with the #Deliveroo “back swipe” lacks the comic appeal of a #Laurel and Hardy sketch if you are part of the performance. Having only just finished paying the bill for the broken jaw and ensuing dentistry, I am not keen to entertain the thought of more.

My dance with fish and chips was not balletic. It was more of a smack in the face. It’s bothered me but I think I may have the solution.

The #Darleks had a point, so to speak, integrating the sink plunger into their #Darlek selves. Luckily for me I know the woman who thought up this novel idea and elevated the sink plunger to stardom. I’m thinking of commissioning her to make me something that might serve as an early indication of the “back swipe”.

Teenage boys should watch out. I’m done with “excuse me”. I’m going straight in with “exterminate”.

END

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Image is Siobhain Santry's sketch of Anna.