Seems like the dog meat/sun oil dream was a one-off. Still haven’t figured out where it came from or what it may have meant. Readers of this blog have put through one or two suggestions but I think it best if I keep those to myself!
I have just had a telephone conversation with Richard’s mum, she of the recent comment, ‘Everybody is good at something, aren’t they? What are you good at?’
Frankly there was no answer to that. She is very diplomatic – just like her son! We are taking her to the hospital on Thursday for a check-up on her poorly knee. She needs a new one. Apparently I’m required to converse with the consultant because Betty doesn’t understand these things. Perhaps that’s my talent. The one thing that I am good at? Conversing with consultants? We’ll see.
Betty leaves these appointments without a clue to what’s going on or to what has been said. She is fazed somewhat by the status of these people believing that a consultant is the nearest thing to God and therefore unquestionable. The conversation flows over and around her but not into her. She nods and agrees. And then nods and agrees some more. Bless her. If they said, this time we are going to remove your kneecap and put in a Royal Crown Derby joint, which you will then have to bathe in raspberry jam for two years, she’d believe them, possibly only querying which make of jam? So in order to avoid this we are taking her.
Besides her total acceptance of all God-like professionals Betty is in her eighties and therefore, in my opinion, deserves a little assistance. She hasn’t quite reached the point that my late father reached. He called me to his house at 2.00 am one morning because he had chest pains. I zoomed up the road, rushed into his house, found him sitting on the bed clutching at his chest, panting. Mrs Calm (me) serenely floating on the surface, paddling like shit beneath the surface, sat on the bed at the side of him and asked him the relevant questions. He pulled a few faces and groaned a bit. I established in my own mind that he wasn’t crying wolf, which he did on several occasions, and walked into the kitchen to call 999. Before I dialled I heard an almighty burp from dad’s direction and stopped. I walked back into his room to see him rubbing at his chest in a circular movement and heard him say, ‘Aww that’s better!’
I stared at him, wide-eyed. ‘Was that you!’ I said.
He nodded and grinned. ‘Yeah, I feel a bit better now. I think I had wind. It must have been that onion I ate earlier.’
With my heart still thudding I bellowed, ‘Wind? Wind! You’ve got me here at two in the morning because you’ve got bloody wind?’
In answer … he passed wind again – from a lower orifice!
My father was a diamond and if I could have him back, wind and all, I would. I digress …
Because I am going in with Betty to see the consultant and put forwards a million questions I am back in favour and she has just told me that I am like a daughter to her. Sweet hey? Well it is to me. I have to grab nice comments wherever and whenever I can. You see, that’s the main problem with being quite a strong character – or coming across as quite a strong character – people believe it and treat you accordingly If I was a timid little mouse-type person people would be forever offering me cheese. As it is, being a tiger, people assume I’m killing freely and eating on a regular basis. Haha I’m losing it aren’t I? Not to worry. When the men in the white coats turn up I can always question them – even wrapped in a straight jacket and heading for the funny-farm.
Take care my lovelies x