Well, I have returned, and I am sitting on the taxi rank.
I am feeling a bit guilty about this because it has deprived my father of two-fifths of his nursing staff, but nevertheless we can’t survive the winter without milking the summer to its maximum cash yield, and so here we are.
Oliver came home at the same time. He has had a lovely time, probably because of being free to do what he liked on the other side of the world with all of his favourite friends as much as because of the wonderfulness of Japanese culture. He has shown us lots of pictures, cooked himself some sticky rice to remember it by, and then collapsed into bed, because of the jet lag, but he seems very happy.
I am pleased. I am sure he has added another few bricks to his character.
I think probably I have been adding the odd one to mine. I have been keeping my father company at nights whilst he is not very well, rather like a person in a Victorian novel. Mrs. Gaskell’s heroines seem to spend an inordinate amount of time sitting watching by sick beds, although their nights seem to be enlivened by last-ditch whispered confessions murmured between pale lips in the silent hour just before the dawn, and the longed for Crisis, at which point the invalid either suddenly opens their eyes and becomes a flushed pink colour because they have suddenly recognised everyone again, or smiles meekly and drifts off into oblivion. Usually in the intervening period whilst they have been either raving or lying white and still, all of their problems have miraculously been solved and it turns out that the hero has Come Back From Sea because he loves them after all, and also they have inherited a massive fortune from somewhere unexpected.
I am disappointed to tell you that sitting next to a real sick bed is nothing like that. My father has completely failed to confess anything of note, even just before the dawn, although he did mention one night that he might like an ice lolly, which he had to have with a tissue because it was a bit stickier than I might have expected. Neither of us inherited a massive fortune in the meantime, although I did keep checking my emails just in case. Also despite four nights I still do not have the first idea what a Crisis might be, or why it might make you blab out that you know who killed the poor murdered youth who was mysteriously found with his toes turned up in a back alley a couple of miles away.
Generally in the pale moments just before the dawn the only crisis that comes is that you start to realise that you have got very cold feet and then begin to wonder why it has taken you so long to notice that you really need a wee.
Also sickbeds must have been very boring before library books and Kindle and online newspapers.
We enlivened this one with quiet jazz music, trundling along cheerfully in the background, for the moments when my father was not sleepy , and left playing even when he was, because it is encouraging to listen to, and also lets any would-be burglars know that there is somebody wide awake and vigilantly on guard, so probably better to go next door.
The dogs generally let people know that anyway.
For the last few days I have buzzed off to bed once the day has chugged into life, leaving my father to the joint ministrations of My Sister The Doctor, and to passing district nurses, who all seem very nice if not brilliant timekeepers, if they were taxis turning up at such unpredictable times they would very quickly go broke and probably get rude things written about them on TripAdvisor as well.
Today I didn’t. We were coming home because of work this weekend, so some packing up and cleaning the camper van was called for. This took ages. Mark has been fixing it whilst I have been occupied, but it is not yet in a roadworthy state, and he will have to finish it when we go back next week.
The journey back took ages, and I had nodded off before we even reached Blackpool. Then there was a very lot of dashing about unpacking and getting ready for work, and what with one thing and another I have not yet had time for a sleep.
This is making me very grumpy with customers, but I do not mind about this, because it is my usual state of customer relations.
Obviously I do not care if the customers mind.
I will never make a Victorian heroine.
