Too quiet by half

Thursday October 5, 2006

When I picked Graham up yesterday, or very early this morning, it was to find him full of a feverish cold. It seems we both got the same cold at the same time but where I was fortunate enough to shake it off in less than twenty-four hours, it has dug its nasty, congestive claws into poor Graham. Well and truly.

“Come on, my lad. Let’s get you home, fed, dosed with Night Nurse, and off to bed.”

“For once I’m not arguing. Not even with that ‘my lad’ bit.”

“I should think not.”

I took him tea at about eight-thirty this morning and he staggered down stairs about half an hour later, seeking sustenance. Which he got. Back he went to bed, this time dosed with Day Nurse, to sleep through to lunch time, came down looking much brighter, again seeking sustenance. One more repeat and he was almost back to normal.

“How’re you feeling now?” I asked.

“Oh, much better, thanks.”


“Yes, please. And then I’d better get myself showered and ready to go back to work.”

A little while later, on the way back to St Audries, he apologised for sleeping all the way through his time off.

“Don’t be silly. Being in a caravan on your own, trying to sweat a cold out, is no fun at all.”

“I’ll make it up to you.”

“You better.”

The no fun part for me was driving off, leaving him there all dressed and ready for work once more.

Hey ho. Tomorrow is the last day of the transvestites, then there’s a couple of days of bits and pieces over the weekend and then, finally, on Sunday evening or Monday morning, we’ll be home together for a decent long break.

On the way back I thought I’d be clever and pop into Morrison’s supermarket for bread, eggs and milk, avoiding the run through the town. That was a mistake. We liked Morrison’s when we lived for a short time in a rented house in Staveley, in Derbyshire, waiting for the purchase of the farmhouse in Matlock to go through. Now I don’t like it. At all. I fear that my Morrison’s days are done.

“Oh well, Dolly. It really won’t be long now. Come on, let’s give you a good brush and comb. I might not be able to do the grass but at least I can have you bibbed and tuckered before he comes back.”

She submitted with reasonable grace, signalling the time when she’d had enough by batting the brush with one mighty swipe of a massive paw.

“Right,” I said. “Let’s get ourselves a bite to eat and then we’ll have an early night. Too quiet around here this evening. Too quiet by half.”


A minor rage
In the instant between saying and waving goodbye
comes the urge to say, no, I’m not going, not even
for a little while. I shall stay. I do not want to go.
It hurts. I want to hurt someone back. Instead,
smiling best I can, I blow a kiss, focus on the road
ahead, and start to lengthen the distance between us.
John Bailey
Somerset, October 2006



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