Clearer vision, cloudy logistics

MTM’s appointment finally came through for cataract surgery on his first eye. As I’d be driving him home afterwards, we sensibly decided to do a trial run to the hospital the Sunday before, just to familiarise me with the route. 

I don’t enjoy driving on the A1 (those slip roads feel alarmingly short), so we took the A15 instead. We got to Peterborough absolutely fine, turned round in the hospital car park ... and congratulated ourselves on being very organised. 

On the way back, steam started pouring out of the back of the MGf. I hadn’t noticed the temperature gauge climbing because I was concentrating on unfamiliar roads, but a kindly MX-5 driver alerted us to the dramatic plume behind us. 

I pulled into a supermarket car park and called the AA. They arrived in about an hour, during which time we bought sandwiches from the supermarket - not quite the Sunday lunch we’d planned, but needs must. 

The AA man suspected a faulty coolant cap. He topped us up with water, did a pressure test, and said we should be OK to drive home, provided we got the cap replaced ASAP. It was a good job we stopped when we did; much further and we’d have been looking at a very expensive engine problem. We're very grateful to the fellow roadster driver who went out of his way (literally) to help us avoid disaster. 

We bought five litres of water (just in case) and I drove home watching the temperature gauge like a hawk. Mercifully, we made it back without further drama. What we didn’t do was trust the MG to get us to the hospital on surgery day. 

There was nothing for it but for me to drive MTM’s extremely reliable Lexus. Just one small problem: it’s an automatic. I have never driven an automatic car, but needs must when the devil drives — and on the Monday before the operation I embarked on an intensive course in how to forget my left leg. It all went remarkably well. I now don’t know why I was ever nervous about automatics; they’re much easier than manuals. 

The last time MTM coached a manual driver through the transition (one of his mates), there were a couple of unexpected emergency stops as muscle memory kicked in and he tried to change gear by stamping on the brake. I’m pleased to report no such incidents with me. MTM’s former life as a driving instructor came in very handy. I took to it like a duck to water, though it did take me a while to get used to slowing down without using the gears — I hadn’t realised how much I rely on them as a kind of speedometer. 

Meanwhile, the MG went off to our usual garage. They replaced the water with proper coolant and booked it in for further investigation, which it’s undergoing today. They don’t think it’s the coolant cap. Fingers crossed it isn’t too painful for the wallet. 

Now for the important bit. MTM has now had one eye done. In the end it was a 12-week wait rather than the 16 we were warned about, and he now has a shiny new lens in his left eye. Once the cloudiness and gritty sensation cleared (about five days), he was amazed by the colours. His right eye still sees the world through a sepia-tinted cataract — he describes it as “pub haze”, from the days when smoking was still allowed indoors. In his left eye, whites are now as dazzling as those in a Peter Crouch advert. Blues and silvers, in particular, are startlingly bright. 

At his follow-up appointment yesterday, the consultant confirmed he's cleared to drive again. The downside? He’s gone straight back to the bottom of the list for his second eye, with another 16-week wait looming. This is especially galling when friends elsewhere have had their second eye done within a week or two of the first. 

The NHS used a private hospital for MTM’s operation - apparently this is increasingly common to help reduce waiting lists. As the nurse explained the delay for the second eye, we were sitting right next to a sign advertising cataract surgery for £2,750 (or £65 a month) with no waiting time at all. Is it terribly cynical of me to wonder whether that sign was there by design? 

Still - one eye down, one to go. We’ll keep the Lexus fuelled, the MG under observation, and our sense of humour firmly intact. The next episode of this saga will no doubt cover the adventures of MTM's right eye, a gradual return to full-colour living, and whether the garage can restore our faith in the MG’s (usually quite good) reliability.

Under the crab apple tree

I was reading a posting on our local Facebook community page today, there's a discussion about how Crabtree Road in our village got its name. This sparked memories I thought I'd forgotten of growing up in Cambridgeshire. 

There was a gnarled crab apple tree on a big patch of grass on a housing estate near to my childhood home. Ball games were prohibited because householders didn't want their windows breaking. To us kids it was still a playground and a battlefield. 

The fruits were tiny, rock-hard, and mouth-puckeringly sour (one bite was enough!) One older boy, whose name I can’t even remember now, had a particularly lethal aim. I learned to avoid the green whenever the crab apples were falling in abundance. Hidden in longer grass, they wouldn't even break but roll underfoot and trip you up. There would be a sudden whizz of airborne fruit, and either shouts of laughter as you dodged out of the way or groans as one hit home — it was chaotic, exhilarating, and terrifying all at once.  

I wonder where he is now. Maybe he became a world-class cricketer, honing his yorkers from an early age beneath that very tree. Or maybe he’s just an exceptionally accurate paperclip flicker in an office somewhere. 

Thinking of recent news reports of England’s latest Ashes series, I can’t help but draw a comparison: I’d rather face a rain of crab apples than the bowling in the last Test! Dodging those balls requires all the same reflexes, not to mention courage — and maybe a helmet too. 

It’s funny how a chance comment stirs a small slice of childhood back to the forefront of your memory. Unnamed school friends, impossible-to-eat fruit, and the lessons learned beneath a humble crab apple tree all coming back to me unbidden but most welcome. Despite England losing the Ashes, I enjoyed a smile recalling a lawless patch of grass from decades ago.

The Lady Wasp Vanishes

I am being terrorised by a queen wasp, it has been in my house for three days now. I think it must've been hibernating in our outdoor wood pile and accidentally got transported inside via a log for our wood burner.  

The first evening, I noticed it flying around in a dozy, drunken kind of way. It nearly drowned in our aquarium but the mesh to stop the fish jumping out saved it. 

I am not very frightened of insects, over the course of my lifetime and eight (? I think) homes, I have rescued many bees, wasps, daddy long legs, moths and spiders alike, transporting them back to the great outdoors by way of a glass and sturdy piece of card. 

The only things I do not save are house flies. If they make life easy and buzz around a window, I'll let them out that way. House flies carry campylobacter; food poisoning laid me so low for 9 long days a few years ago, I cannot suffer flies to live and so swat them without compunction. 

Anyway, back to the wasp, it damply flew up to the ceiling, banged itself on a beam and then dropped like a stone behind our sofa. I tried to locate it but it was nowhere to be seen. 🐝 

As long as it didn't get in our bedroom, I decided I could live with it spending the night in the lounge, I'd try to find it in the morning. 

The next day was really nice, cold but sunny, MTM doesn't work on Fridays so we wrapped up warm and had a daytrip to the seaside (Sutton on Sea). 

 

We had a lovely lunch at the Beach Bar with a glass of cider, cup of tea to wash it down. I just love these groovy patchwork chairs they have. Afterwards, we had a walk up to and beyond Sandilands and Huttoft. 

The National Trust is doing a fabulous job of converting a golf course into a wetland nature reserve. 

I forgot all about the wasp. 

We went to bed after the 10 o'clock news that night, tired out by all the fresh air and fun. I was just about to turn the light off when I spotted the wasp flitting about the Velux windows on the sloping ceiling. It had clearly been awoken by the heating, it really needs to be somewhere cold. Sighing, I collected my glass and card from the lounge where I'd left them the night before. 

The dratted creature did exactly the same as the day before, flew up to the vaulted ceiling, reached the apex beam, plunged in a headlong dive behind my bedside table and then did the same disappearing act. I became annoyed and agitated, pulling out the cabinet, moving things around under the bed trying to find it. 

MTM: Just turn the light off, it will go to sleep. 

Me: I can't sleep with it in here, especially on my side. 

MTM: I'll swap sides with you. 

Me: It might crawl into our mouths, sting us, our throats will close up with swelling. We'd be dead before an ambulance ever arrived to give us a tracheotomy. 

MTM : You sleep with your mouth closed ..... remember? Because of spiders? (I read somewhere that the average person eats 8 spiders in a lifetime this way). 

Me: I can't take the risk, we'll have to sleep in the guest room. 

MTM: I'm staying here 

 

So I reluctantly headed to the guest bedroom, taking a loving, last look at my husband who would - I was certain - die in the night.

Saturday morning arrived, I was surprised to find all was well, the first thing MTM said to me was "Bzzzzzzzzz"! You can perhaps understand why his nickname is Micky Taking Monster. We had a cup of tea in bed, did a crossword together and then started to get on with our day. After showering in our ensuite bathroom, I was halfway through applying my Merwave products to my dripping wet hair (you get better waves if hair is really wet) when .... 

I reached for one of the products but *there* was the same gigantic wasp crawling around the base of one of the bottles. I swore profusely, leapt naked into the bedroom to retrieve my glass and card, dripping water and product all over the hardwood floor. I was mad as heck, once I caught it, this wasp was going to die, no more Mrs Nice Guy. 

When I got back, the wasp had disappeared ... again! It had possibly dropped down onto the floor and crawled into the laundry basket. 🧺

I had to finish my hair nervously glancing around all the time, watching where I trod in case it was on the floor. After getting dressed and putting on my makeup, I left the wasp in the ensuite bathroom with the door shut but there is probably enough room underneath for it to crawl out. 

I have shaken out every item in the laundry basket, looked under the mats but it's nowhere to be seen. Now I can only wait in nervous anticipation for its next appearance!

Part III - The Last View

BBC Radio 3 reported the other morning that a survey by Sheffield University had found one in three of us believe in the supernatural. I have had too many spooky experiences to dismiss ghosts out of hand. As promised, here is the final instalment in my series of real life Halloween stories - things that have actually happened to me. 

One summer in the early 1990s MTM and I took possession of a derelict barn we planned to turn into a home. MTM works in the construction industry, so we had the right contacts, and after eight months of dust, noise, and plaster, we moved in. The double garage we’d been granted permission to build, however, was still just an idea on paper. 

One of our nearest neighbours, Reg, was already in his nineties - a retired farmer and former cavalryman from the first world war. He’d lived most of his life in these fields. On fine afternoons, he would stroll outside and gaze across our garden to the field beyond, watching sheep graze or, occasionally, a chestnut mare cropping the grass. 

It was only later we realised that if we built the garage, we’d block his view entirely. We hesitated for years, torn between respect for Reg and the reality that our planning permission was expiring. We meant no harm, but we were practical, busy people in our thirties. When the time came, we built the garage, feeling guilty but resigned. 

Time moved on and sadly, Reg passed away. 

That winter, strange things started happening. The new fluorescent light in the garage began flickering and buzzing at random - always when no electrician was around to see it. Sometimes it flickered, occasionally it would dim to near darkness, another time, it would be overly bright, casting long, trembling shadows across the walls. We replaced bulbs, switches, fittings - nothing helped. The buzzy hum seemed to follow me out of the garage like a reproach. 

One cold evening, MTM stood staring up, frustration stiff in his shoulders. A construction professional and he couldn't get a bloody light to work properly! The light buzzed and flickered maddeningly above him, sputtering away in provocation.

Decisive action was called for. He stood in the centre of the garage, hands on his hips, addressed the flickering bulb and then muttered in an assertive tone “Now look, Reg, I know that’s you. You never wanted this garage, and I’m sorry. But it’s here now - so please, just … stop it, will you?” 

He flicked the switch off and stomped back inside. There was a heavy silence afterwards; the garage was holding its breath. 

Believe it or not but from that night on, the light NEVER played up again. Did MTM really exorcise the ghost of Reg by asking him to stop? 

We lived in the barn for twelve years altogether and we never had any more electrical problems. Wherever you are, Reg - thank you for giving us a bit of peace. 

As the nights grow longer, the temperature cools and the wind whispers through the trees, I know whenever I catch sight of a fluorescent light or hear its hum, it'll remind me of Reg, a man who watched over the calm, green Lincolnshire fields for nearly a century. 

Rest in Peace, Reg and Happy Halloween. 🎃 👻

[Name has been changed for privacy].

Clear-eyed cateract surgery

MTM had a hospital appointment to assess his eyes for cataract surgery yesterday. Apparently where you live makes a big difference to how quickly you can see again. 

In Peterborough, they’ll have your cataract sorted in two to three weeks. But if, like us, your GP happens to be over the border in Lincolnshire, you can look forward to a leisurely wait of about four months. Apparently, those living on the edge of the Fens need sharper eyesight than those of us actually in them - probably so they can spot the postcode lottery coming. 

With the additional news Rachel Reeves plans to raise taxes in the next budget - but not necessarily on the people who can most afford it, I went to bed last night feeling dispirited. Then, in a moment of nocturnal optimism, I dreamt I met Jeremy Corbyn. Last I heard, he was forming a new party. In my dream, we brainstormed the name for it. We rejected 4Front for sounding a bit too right-wing and settled on 4Most.

The idea was simple: put the ordinary people first, tax the rich and properly fund public services so no one has to wait months just to see straight again. If I stood as a candidate for 4Most, would you vote for me? I promise better vision - literally and politically. 

We could certainly do with a government that sees clearly too: one that recognises the value of public services and invests in them accordingly. Until then, we’ll keep squinting across county lines, wondering why fairness depends so much on where your GP happens to be.