Went to the podiatrist this morning for my monthly appointment. What a delight. A new, young chap dealt with me and was so efficient and had the best attitude I could have asked for. He had sliced my corns an cut my weird, long, curving claw like nails before I knew it was over. He chatted all the while, distracting me from the proceedings. What a change from the previous chap who hurt me and gave me the impression he just did not like feet. My feet feel great now!
In my younger years, if I should fall, I would leap to my feet, as if on a piece of elastic, for fear anyone saw what had happened. Four days ago, I tripped on the final step of our stairs and sprawled across it, twisting on my way down. The next day, having twisted my knee and badly jarred my arthritic hip I could not put any weight on my leg and scared the life out of the dogs by shrieking in pain when I sat down. Lying down was a farce, involving Terry’s help and many strategically placed pillows. Unashamed by my apparent inability to cope with pain, I consumed as many strong painkillers as allowed. Four days on and I am still limping with difficulty and my knee chooses to give out at odd moments.
If I needed a salutary warning that I am not the limber woman of my youth, this was it. The pain will pass but I think the slight fear of a repeat event will stay much longer.
Without Terry taking charge and tending to my needs and all household chores, I would have been lost. I feel for all people who do not have a caring partner to help in times like this. My man deserves a medal.
Yes, it is that time of the year when doctors send out their flu jab invites and when I spend ten seconds thinking it over before graciously declining. Despite being diabetic, arthritic and having suffered two small strokes I am generally of robust type. No sniffles or temperatures for this old gal! However, this past week has seen me in the clutches of a full blown common cold. Hacking cough, tap dripping nose, sore throat and ear infection coupled with a fevered brow, have all conspired to make me give pause to my decision. Maybe I shall gratefully accept my invitation after all.
Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.
Under my window, a clean rasping sound
When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:
My father, digging. I look down
Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds
Bends low, comes up twenty years away
Stooping in rhythm through potato drills
Where he was digging.
The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft
Against the inside knee was levered firmly.
He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep
To scatter new potatoes that we picked,
Loving their cool hardness in our hands.
By God, the old man could handle a spade.
Just like his old man.
My grandfather cut more turf in a day
Than any other man on Toner’s bog.
Once I carried him milk in a bottle
Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up
To drink it, then fell to right away
Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods
Over his shoulder, going down and down
For the good turf. Digging.
The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap
Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge
Through living roots awaken in my head.
But I’ve no spade to follow men like them.
Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests.
I’ll dig with it.
Last night someone broke into our garden and trashed a few plants. How I wish I had bought a camera and light! I feel so sad and angry! I think it was probably kids but hey ho what can I do but feel sad.