Home Thoughts Weekly

Our Citroen is sick and Lester-the-Fiesta, our back-up banger, has also kicked up and demanded new, expensive parts. Just what we needed in January. Fortunately, my last couple of long runs have gone well, which is a blessed relief. Something which is proving an absolute joy , is the poetry component of my OU course. One of my reasons for studying creative writing was to work outside my usual areas and whilst I’ve always dabbled with poetry, it’s a long time since I’ve produced any for outside scrutiny. It’s been great to have the luxury of immersing myself in other people’s work. Tom gave me a brilliant anthology which included DVDs of poets reading their work which has been a wonderful resource (Pamela Robertson-Pearce (film), Neil Astley (ed.), In Person: 30 Poets (2008) Northumberland: Bloodaxe Books). The only problem with soaking up so much verse is that I’m beginning to feel a bit daunted about the next assignment which is to produce 40 lines of poetry. I felt less nervou...

BT , who writes so well about her beautiful part of the world, (do go and visit if you haven't) presented me with a rather daunting tag of revealing twenty-five things about myself. Twenty-five? Too much information, surely? So I've cheated a bit and found twenty-five I made earlier. For anyone who missed them before here are: Six Fixes when I need cheering up. Seven not so secret things about me. And, for those of you who didn't believe it, I really did fall in love with Tom at first sight And Twelve smells that would revive me in my hour of need. If anyone would like to pick this up, consider yourself tagged. In the meantime, here is a rather lovely painting of the old boathouse at Poppit from the very talented Tom Tomos.

'What are you going to wear, then?’ asks my dear friend, Jill. ‘Well, first I’m going to knit some sandals…’ ‘Don’t forget your dirndl skirt!’ ‘Ooh, and a hairy, multi-colour, organic jumper! Our mutual mirth is due to the fact that the Night of Reckoning is here. What seemed a great Christmas present idea has now come home to roost. I’m taking Tom to see the Poozies , an all girl folk band described with words like ‘uplifting’ and ‘traditional’ ie not my bag at all. My disquiet increases on the way to the venue when I ask Tom how long it is since he’s seen them. ‘Seen them? I’ve never seen them.’ Turns out he saw them once on the telly and ‘quite liked them’ so bought a couple of their CDs on the strength on it. One of the drawbacks of getting together a bit later in life, apart from being missing being young and foolish together, is that there’s enough trauma just getting together without delving too much into each other’s young and foolish pasts as well. Sometimes you ...

The day after my non-operation I receive a nice pile of ‘Get Well Soon’ cards (if only) and an appointment for a return trip to see Mr Shoulder Man… except the letter says, Mr Shoulder Man (locum). Does that mean Mr Shoulder Man is a locum or the appointment is with his locum? If that’s the case it’ll be the third consultant to see my shoulder. Will this one be pro or anti op? And as for the urgent referral to a physio? Nothing. Still, liberal coatings of Talisker did for my mouth ulcer which is a blessed relief. The same day a message pops up in my email to tell me that it’s only eight weeks to the Llanelli half marathon. (Strangely enough, not a million miles away from where I was for my non-op.) And the trouble is I’ve got a bit comfortable. A slight tear in my calf muscle after the Cardiff half meant I had to rest for a while and although I’ve resumed my usual running, I haven’t really done much distance training. To be honest, I haven’t really felt like going arse over...

Monday 5 January I send a text to Lily and Rose to remind then it’s their auntie’s birthday on Thursday. Except I don’t. As the message wings off into cyberspace it tells me it’s on its way to Rose and my sister. Doh! Later, my sister rings me to ask if she’s reached the age where someone needs to tell you not to forget your birthday. It’s all because I’m sh*tting myself about going into hospital tomorrow and can’t think straight. To cap it all, The Killer Mouth Ulcer From Hell, has taken up residence on the side of my tongue right by my back molars; I can’t eat, I can’t drink and, because I also can’t speak, when I ring the hospital to check that there’s a bed for me in the morning, I sound like a mad, drunk woman. I sit down to watch ‘Animal Park’ for some comfort viewing. There are concerns for Kadu, an elderly tiger who needs a general anaesthetic but who almost died the last time she was knocked out. Kadu survives the anaesthetic but has to be put down anyway. Not quite ...