Self-medication

 I went for a routine appointment

and came out with high blood pressure.

Several attempts only succeeded in raising it further.

So this is my attempt to bring it down.

And if tranquil beach scenes don't do it,

then surely off-season Sissinghurst

with nobody around to spoil Harold's vistas

should be beneficial.

And if that doesn't work

I will try dark chocolate

and having a laugh.

Notes from the sick bay

Well it's hardly original of me I grant,

but I have a Cold.

Or it's had me, for about a week now.

Who's counting?

The days and nights are merging in a mess of screwed up tissues,

creased sheets,

menthol inhalers,

Miss Marple DVDs,

turmeric drinks because the internet says it's anti-inflammatory,

honey and lemon because that used to be good enough,

and the annoying thing is,

it's looking so bright and inviting out there.

I ought to be out in it.

I ought to be doing so many things.

There are birthdays to attend to.

And spring cleaning.

And grand-daughter to play with.

But I have a Cold.

And no one else must get it.

I'll come back to that important point.

My mother never got colds 

and I tell myself I have inherited that handy gene

because it really is quite a rare occurrence.

I saw this one eyeing me up a few times

but laughed it off.

Look who's laughing now.

Yesterday I thought I had turned a corner.

The violent sneezing stopped and the diaphragm stopped hurting.

(A cracked rib surely?)

I even spent most of the night asleep instead of wandering around at 2.40 am

(a time nobody should see twice a day) 

thinking the house seemed a little surprised

to be hosting me out of hours.

But no. The Cold had a new plan.

Travel down boys. Check out the bronchi.

See what mischief we can do there.

So now the coughing has started in earnest.

The forty a day sort of cough,

which coupled with the turmeric stained fingers is all too realistic.

Dr Google has been consulted again.

Plenty of fluids, 

stay hydrated, 

create a moist atmosphere - yes got the message, 

gargle,

Advil (why do I always end up at Mayo clinic?),

it's a virus so don't even think of asking for antibiotics,

if you've got a fever and chills and you're over 65 and pregnant

and you've been ill for much longer than one week you wuss, 

maybe then consult your physician. I mean GP.

But they've all got it too.

So stop feeling sorry for yourself.

It's only a Cold.

Nobody wants to hear about it.

And crucially, just before you're completely recovered

and you will be, give or take three weeks,

and even though wraith-like in appearance,

one of your nearest and dearest will get it

and not only will they cast a baleful eye in your direction,

despite all your hand washing,

but they will need nursing.

And the sick bay, so recently vacated

will be occupied again.

Rest cure

 Nothing to read here.

What a relief.

No signs.

No instructions.

No advertisements.

I find myself incapable of ignoring any lettering

however banal.
These days we are bombarded by messages,
but the habit of reading them all started young.

I remember feeling obliged to decipher the words

mesembryanthemum criniflorum

on the back of the loo door at home.

I can't have been more than five years old.

My father had pasted up some pages torn out of Amateur Gardening to

the panels on the door.

There was another sign in his spindly writing taped

to the geyser that heated the water for our baths.

It read,

Remember. Before lighting remove paper from chimney.

We read this nightly and eventually set it, somewhat bizarrely, 
to the hard-to-scan chorus of

In a feeble attempt to stave off this madness

I peel the labels from appliances

and products that cannot be mistaken for anything else.

This may yet be my undoing but so far it offers a little merciful respite.

How do you cope?

The last of the ha-ha-harvest

Red cabbage - mostly snail and caterpillar.

Carrots - mostly carrot fly.

Beetroot - mostly too big and woody.

Nevertheless I have managed to extract a borscht

from these flawed ingredients.

The snails and caterpillars were spared.

I have decided to give that bed over to tulips for cutting next spring.

It's too warm to plant them yet so I must hold off

otherwise they will be mostly - Tulip fire fungus.

Even Sarah Raven has suffered from this.

A little idea

that I'm pleased with.

I have a lot of toys left over from my own childhood,

my mother's nursery school

and my own children.

Some of them have seen better days, 

and are mostly without their original packing.

I have a goodly supply of small boxes and so until recently

was happy enough just to decant and store into those.

But with lids on, these were not very helpful to little B 

who likes to choose toys and put them away herself on the shelf.

So I photocopied the contents

directly on the photocopier bed

and stuck the startlingly 3D image

onto each of the lids.

I'm going to do the same with Lego.

I sorted that years before I knew there'd be anyone else

playing with it, so it's all complete with instructions 

but there are hardly any original boxes.

It was such fun that I am casting round for other things to photocopy.

Food perhaps?

Tools?

Art equipment?

Alternatively

you can put on your Dolly Parton wig

and Paddington Bear's boots

and stride purposefully into the weekend.

A very curious encounter

Picture the scene.

A young man (my son) is on a train sitting

at a table of four seats.

He is wearing a casual navy jacket,

a T-shirt and V-neck jumper

with a pair of dark maroon trousers.

Opposite him are a smartly dressed woman and her husband

in their late fifties or early sixties.

She has a cold.

After a while she opens a pack of Lemsip sachets

 takes them all out, and puts them in a tidy pile.

She then opens up the Lemsip box.

Thusly.

She turns it over and begins to write.

The young man does not take much notice of this,

(he is working on his laptop)

until she pushes the piece of card across the table to him.

She smiles. It is a message for him.

Here is what it says:

Do you think she makes a habit of offering 

unsolicited sartorial advice on trains?

Would an unremarkably dressed young man be likely to 

a) be grateful for this advice,

b) want to act on such specific advice?

Would she have risked doing this to a woman?

Would she have welcomed my return note

correcting her spelling of 'accentuate' and 'wear'?

What would you have felt?

What would you have said?