Weeks 17 to 19: Rural idyll
I have really missed writing this blog. And so, although Husband is not yet back on two legs and we are not yet off to the Algarve, here I am again, taking up the story so far.
On Friday, it will be six weeks since Husband had the operation on his knee and that will be the day when he can finally begin to put weight on the right leg again, which will make getting around a lot easier. He’s keen to get back to driving, which has been my domain since the accident. The fact that I have had to get behind the wheel has been a good thing, because I had developed demons about driving and now I seem to be defeating them.
My mum appears not to have minded our moving in and turning her house into part care home, part office. She generously said the grab bars fitted in the bathroom might even be useful to her one day. I’ve edited two – getting on for three – important books in my half of the dining room. (Important to me, that is, not necessarily to the world.) Husband has taken Dad’s spot in the living room: the armchair in the corner with the footstool. And we’ve been having a grand time together, the three of us, in high good humour.
I made one trip to London. I had a lot to do in a day and ended up with both a mild asthma attack and a nose bleed, and in spite of these I still felt a tiny amount of regret that we’ve given up our stake in this fantastic city. The train journey back involved two changes, finally winding up at a tiny station in Lincolnshire – two platforms and a level crossing. The young guard asked to check my ticket just before I arrived and I struggled to find it. I apologised; said it had been a long day. I finally located it and he saw that I’d travelled from London. He widened his eyes. ‘Ooh, I bet you’re glad to be back,’ he said. And, strangely, I was. It was evening, and my car was the only one in the car park. I drove back through dark, silent roads and felt very, very calm.