Well, despite this warning I was still rather hoping to write at least one or two things here, but that clearly didn’t happen. In the end, Mum asked us to come over after her operation – her first operation, as it turned out – rather than during her stay in hospital.
I can see her point (she hates hospital visitors and being ill, especially – I suspect – around her son) but it was a rather nervewracking few days, as we packed and bought insurance to a backing track of phone calls to my Dad. Or, more often, absence of contact from my Dad, who it seems only considers news of earth-shattering significance to be worthy of texts that I was rather hoping would arrive more often for reassurance’s sake.
Since we got back – in fact, immediately after dropping us off at our first of many train stations – Mum went back into hospital for more surgery. The explanation for this second visit is complicated enough to be tedious to those not related to her, I’m sure; suffice it to say that with this second operation the prognosis could become good enough for the future to be free of any extra therapies.
We’ve spent one day on trains, then two days at home; we’re now preparing to head off to the Truck Festival tomorrow, a prior engagement it’s rather difficult to shift. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t looking forward to it, but the temptation, now we have a long weekend off work, to spend it all sitting round eating chocolates: well it’s all I can do to not close all the curtains and sit on the bed munching Maltesers.
But, no. My bush hat, still bearing traces of suncream goop inside its sweatband despite a thorough sponging off when in Spain, is now back out of the cupboard and sitting atop karimat and tent. Euterpe, unyielding mistress of my heart, now commands my appearance in full festival regalia to do her bidding. At least I’ve had time to wash my smalls.