2293 days ago
The physios are due later today and my father must report to them on his progress since his return from Warwick hospital. E, the delightfully right wing lady who comes twice a day to care for him and I told him firmly that he needed to truthfully demonstrate that he was on the mend. That was the stick. The carrot is the idea that he could walk to the White Bear again...that would be about 400 yards down Sheet Street and across the main square in Shipston.
And so he is in training.
2293 days ago
For the third day, despite receiving clear instructions to deliver the loathsome Guardian Newspaper to my father here in Shipston and despite promising to do so, the Newsagent has failed. And that means that I must again head down to the shop in a few minutes to pick up the rag.
I shall explain loudly
2328 days ago
It was a reasonably old episode of Midsomer Murders on the rerun Channel 10 last night. Dad and I missed the first three minutes despite me driving back to Shipston at what he terms breakneck speed, that is to say 50 miles per hour. We'd been at an impromptu party at the hospice.
My youngest sister N had pitched up from Oxford. and So Dad and I stayed on far later than planned as my step mother said we should have a party. I had actually brought in a few bottles for my step siblings to cheer them up. And so we all talked a bit of family holidays in days gone by. Was Pelion 1989 or 1991? Heaven only knows but we played along with the game my step mother suggested of matching years and places.
On best behaviour and not drinking
2331 days ago
It was Friday at noon and for some reason logistics had become muddled and my father and I were at a loose end. There was only one solution: the White Bear and two pints of cider. As we headed down Sheep Street with my father leaning on his strollator being overtaken by tortoises and little old ladies on their strollators, the old boy piped up with "Its Big Issue day, I can buy a copy off the Bulgarian lady."
3487 days ago
And so it is off to see the deluded lefties of Sheep Street, my family in Shipston, Warwickshire. It should be an easy enough trip from Paddington to Moreton in the Marsh on the 7.22. But that assumes that First Great Western are remotely competent. Oh no.
At 7.15 we were warned of 20 minutes delays due to “a failure of railside equipment” at Hayes. At 8 PM it was 35 minutes. And so on. It is now 9.24 PM and at least I am now on the train but I doubt, if my taxi driver is still awake at Moreton that I will make it to Sheep Street before midnight. First Great Western I detest you.
And so how to kill almost three hours at Paddington? I have written a couple of pieces which, like this, I shall load on Friday. But by chance I bumped into a well-known bear (who else would you meet at Paddington) and so we enjoyed a drink and a discussion about Quindell (QPP) and Cupid (CUP). I sense things are moving apace on both stocks, both of which – as it happens are represented by foxy PR bird Rebecca S-H. She does know how to pick ‘em.
More on both of those fine upstanding members of the AIM cesspit community to follow.