It is, of course, not yet recovered, and is still bright pink and occasionally leaky. I have ignored the hospital doctor’s instruction to pester the GP to change the dressing, which I suspect he did out of some sort of petty vengefulness towards GPs in general, and am changing it myself. I did not have any dressings the right shape, but had a consultation with our local chemist, who thought hard for a little while, and eventually drew a helpful outline on the back of an ordinarily rectangular dressing and suggested that I cut round it.
As technical drawing goes it would not have won any awards but it worked. I was peeling it off last night and could not understand how it had become so thoroughly stuck on. It took me a while to realise that the plaster had come off some time earlier and instead I was industriously peeling all of the skin off the end of my toe. I was both revolted and intrigued, obviously, but it has been cocooned in its plaster for a few days, and so perhaps it is not surprising.
The summer seems to be galloping away at a surprising pace. Time does this when you get old. This summer has been considerably shorter than the length of a physics class at school, which I definitely recall enchanted every Thursday afternoon into dragging on for months and months, if only somebody would teach me physics now. I could listen whilst I got all of the laundry and the cleaning done. This summer is fast disappearing in a whirlwind of endless changing sheets and feeding a probably-still-growing boy, even Lucy is taking some considerable nurturing. We seem to be visiting Booths every day, who would have thought that one family could eat so many ethical lettuces. Fortunately Mark has been at home for the weekend and so has been supportively trolley-pushing at my side.
Oliver does not eat lettuce unless it is hidden on a sandwich, disguised with lots of ham.
Lucy is going next week and it will mean another flurry of hasty sheet-changing, because Oliver’s girlfriend will be coming to stay in her stead. I have met her only very briefly and so hope that we are going to get along, and have encouraged myself with the recollection that at least she will not be bringing any rascally cats with her. I found all of my clean clothes in the dog basket this morning, tugged down from the airing rail by somebody’s claws. The dogs had also been in the dog basket, appreciating their newly-enhanced cushioning. Also several of my plant pots have become firstly a handy receptacle for poo and secondly tipped out all over the floor. I like the cats very much, they are engaging and entertaining company, but I suspect I will enjoy the tranquillity when they have departed, even if the world has become a little lonelier.
Oliver’s girlfriend is staying for a week or so, except in the middle they have booked themselves into the lovely Midland in Manchester, and are going to the theatre. It appears that Oliver has inherited my own preference for up-market living. He will make it to the middle classes easily at this rate.
He is at work as I write, trying to scrape sufficient cash together to pay for it all. He seems to be doing pretty well so far, although his earning days are almost done, he is off to Korea the week after that, and then it will be school.
I will have to scrape together some new-clothes cash first. Gordonstoun laundry could be re-christened Fifty Shades Of Grey, he does not have anything fit for being in Korea, where I understand you are expected to dress in Gangnam Style. We will have to go to TK Maxx before his girlfriend arrives. This shop does leftovers from real shops, at a reduced budget suitable for aspirational peasants, which is, as you know, me. Some of their things are entirely respectable, but since they only sell the things that won’t sell anywhere else, they are usually in odd sizes. I am pleased to say that they have always got loads in Oliver’s size because he is so tall and thin.
I am not looking forward to this adventure because it is always followed by hours and hours of name-label-sewing, but it is a necessity. He cannot go on an exotic middle-class holiday in too-short jogging trousers and worn grey T-shirts.
I will just have to hope for a busy night on the taxi rank.
