Friday June 2, 2006
“That’s a bit on the low side,” said the nice fresh young doctor when she took my blood pressure.
“Lowish seems to be normal for me,” I replied. “Especially on a hot summer’s afternoon when sensible folk ought to be snoozing. Not too low, I presume?”
“No. Just lower than I’d expected. You seem to be doing very well.”
“Thanks. I feel pretty good just now. Wonderful what a tonic sea air and sunshine can be.”
“Better than any tonic I could give you.”
And off I toddled, smiling, into the sunshine, clutching the paper prescription to hand in to the pharmacy for collection tomorrow. Problem solved.
I wouldn’t tell her this, of course, but an encounter with a nice fresh young doctor, of either gender, makes a darn good tonic, too. It’s a shame that if all goes to plan I’ll not be staying long with the Williton doctors.
Speaking of smiles and plans, it has been my day for satisfaction on both counts. A large packet of documents arrived this morning, with an explanatory letter from Sally our solicitor, complete with the contract to sign and return on Monday, along with the 10% deposit ready for exchange. The seller’s agent called, too, to check my end of the deal. So far, everything has gone to my most optimistic schedule. We are now ready to exchange and, from what the agent said, so are the sellers. At this rate, we could secure an exchange by the end of next week.
That made me smile. Even when I emerged from a rapid first read of the documents I was smiling. In fact I’ve been singing ‘Oh, what a beautiful morning!’ all day long.
I spent the last of the daylight sitting watching the reflected light, molten silver and gold on the sea under a clear sky fading to indigo, and clutching a pint of icy Foster’s. The beer was welcome after a hot, sticky day, and the scene was beautiful. I felt as though I was sitting under my favourite tree at Gouves, in Crete. In fact, allowing for the complete lack of cicadas, I could have been there. Thinking about it now, there’d have been the heady scent rolling in from the orange groves, too, and I’d have been chinking the ice in a large glass of Metaxa rather than quaffing cold Foster’s, but otherwise the illusion was pretty close to being complete. My imagination is more than capable of filling in any missing detail.
Mind you, being a poet helps with the creation and maintenance of just about any similar illusion. It’s all to do with that special inner eye, I suppose.