Copyright© 2012 Angharad
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I spent the next two days in hospital, the ordeal of which became violent when they let loose the chest physio on me. Thankfully it was a woman, though she looked extremely fit and strong and spent half an hour on each day trying to push my spine through my sternum or crack my ribs. It felt better afterwards, only because she’d stopped—no, I did shift a far amount of muck, which they collected and took off to the pathology lab. See, I’m so famous they even collect my mucus—yeah, ’nuff said.
Much to my astonishment, Simon brought me in a present—an iPad, so I could watch the TdF from my hospital bed. The picture was small but reasonably clear, Wiggo was still in yellow—wow, if he wins it—what a leg up that would be to cycling in the UK and his name would be forever immortal. I mean they still talk about Robert Millar, who podiumed and won the King of the Mountains jersey about twenty years ago. There were rumours that he was living as a woman, but I think that might be just a myth—anyway, he was a brilliant climber, which most Brits seem to have difficulty with. He’s an enigmatic character who has just disappeared eschewing any publicity, although he was always shy—quite a contrast to Chris Boardman, who seems to thrive on it.
I was discharged on the Wednesday just in time to get home and watch the Tour on the telly—a large screen makes it so much more enjoyable. The children were still home, I’d confused the weeks hadn’t I? They go next; anyway, they were very attentive waiting on me hand and foot, except Danny, who was still in school. He was miffed, the cricket competition he should have been playing in was rained off—I did tell you it was the wettest summer I could remember, but apparently 1912 was worse except up in the north of Scotland.
David made such a difference to catering, he is brilliant—I think I’ll be happy to stay at home for a week and eat myself silly with his wonderful food. He chatted with me a bit more about the accommodation thing and I offered the new conversion when it was ready. I also have Catherine’s house, although that is occupied at the moment so it’s bringing her some income for her investment portfolio, which Simon looks after.
Half of the kids have property even though they might not appreciate it: Livvie has her father’s flat in Edinburgh; Catherine has her parents old house; Pud will have Des’ old house so just Trish, Danny and Meems have nothing, Julie has been promised something by her natural parents, though quite what that will be—possibly their bungalow on the Isle of Wight. I have the house in Bristol, plus the villa in Southsea so hopefully those with no property left them will have something to enjoy when I pop my clogs. Simon has set up a trust fund for each of them, so when they reach twenty one, they’ll have some independence. Sadly, Jacquie came along too late to take advantage of that—however, he has set up an ISA for her—a savings account which she knows nothing about.
I looked at my emails and discovered some photos sent as an attachment of a polecat—well it looked like one to me—in Dorset. Not a first one by any means, but their range is more to the north and west in Wales and the marches.
I processed some more records—it’s not that strenuous and makes me feel useful, however, Simon came to see where I was on the Thursday afternoon and found me asleep at my desk. He gave me a real telling off which had me in tears—which meant he apologised—seems a bit of a waste of time all round.
Danny borrowed my iPad to take to school and someone broke it, so we’re exploring the insurance for that. Simon was furious and went to see the headmaster, who was most apologetic but didn’t offer to pay for it. As computers they’re very convenient but limited, unlike laptops they don’t seem to run peripherals very well, if at all, except wi-fi ones.
I went and spoke with Maureen, who seemed to get along fine with David. She and her team of carpenters and assorted electricians, plumbers and plasterers were making great progress on the conversion of the outhouse/stable. She thought they’d be finished a week early and David was most impressed with the way it was shaping up. He was definitely interested in renting it.
The police visited for further statements about the death of Stone which if you remember happened at the hands of his mother—she shot him. The prosecutor is still waiting for evaluation of her mental state—she’s more barking than a kennel load of spaniels.
It was a great relief when they sent Andy Bond to interview me, the coroner wasn’t entirely happy with the police investigation and wanted specific questions answered by me. I did as best I could, not exactly remembering things, as it was weeks ago when it all happened and I’ve been ill since.
I’m still ill and receiving loads of pills and someone takes me to see either the hospital or Dr Smith every week—he’s not happy to let me drive just yet, so I humour him. I’ve mended bridges with Dr Carlton, the consultant I laid into the first time I saw him, he’s mellowed and I feel much better than I did when I first saw him, and he’s trying not to patronise women patients.
I’m trying to organise the children’s packing for their holiday but it’s not easy, especially with the older ones who always know better than I do, but that’s another story and they still have a couple of days, so we might achieve a compromise. Mind you they way they treat me, you’d think I was sixty not twenty eight. I don’t have the energy to argue and besides I’m trying to mellow a little, which Simon is always telling me to do, so if my lord and master is telling me to do it, I suppose I better had—well, occasionally.
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