Black holes

… and other theories. Life has its frustrations. Most of these are pretty minor in the big scheme; but annoying, nevertheless. Two weeks ago my black bin for general rubbish went walkies after I had put it out for collection. It had my house number on it so I am pretty sure my literate neighbours would have noticed if they had taken the wrong one.

What to do? I contacted Northants Council and ordered a new one. This never turned up. I emailed and complained. Norbert – now that’s a name I associate with Gary Larsson  - replied. He said it HAD been delivered and I should have a look around my neighbourhood to see where it was. What! I would have thought that a delivery to number 8 means that the bin gets delivered to the door and not ballpark village. I felt myself amidst a Gary Larsson cartoon discussing bins with chickens perhaps.

I emailed again. Now I await a next, new black bin. Watch this space. In deference to Northants employees, I have thought that maybe in my village there is a black hole that has swallowed my black bin. At the same time as this was playing out, I had an email to say my passport had been approved and it would be delivered between 8am and 12. It didn’t arrive. Argh. Another thing slipping into that black hole. This time I panicked. Bins are two a penny but a passport going walkies is much worse. It did turn up some time later, thank God. This time I really did fret.

While all this is happening, I have spent my time fighting a heavy cold. Everything looks much bleaker when you don’t feel too hot. I haven’t been swimming, and I haven’t been on my bike either this week. I have felt very sorry for myself, to be honest. 

A scary Halloween costume to frighten those hiding in the dark corners, if not the dark holes

I walked Ezra-Mae to school and she cheered me up. We sounded out the letters on the street signs and she was excited to see a number nine on so many bins awaiting collection in her neighbourhood. I remind myself I should try and be more excited about things like bin numbers

Meanwhile, black holes – large potholes – abound all over the place and as it is winter they are only going to get bigger. I need a sign for my rear window, “I’m not drunk, I’m avoiding potholes.” I realise how I drive round the familiar ones like I am training for a slalom. Potholes are much worse for cyclists – both as a hazard and being much more difficult to avoid when cars are bearing down on you. Just a thought, is there a link between these big, almost bottomless holes in the road and a missing bin. There could well be.

Doggybollocks

I tried hard to find an apt word for my situation. This week I got notification on my appointment to see a doctor about my sore heel. This appointment is for March 7^th, 2025. I figure by the time I see a doctor I will have been reduced to shuffling along the aisles of Tesco in my bedroom slippers – and possibly matching jimjams. Although, these days jimjams are now upgraded to loungewear. Six months’ wait is doggybollocks! However, on the radio it said the wait to see someone if you want an ADHD diagnosis is 2 and a half years! Even bigger doggybollocks.

I am looking into alternatives and I now have an open referral letter from my GP so hopefully I won’t sink to such desperate measures as to go shopping in loungewear! I have also come to wonder, if Donald Trump didn’t succeed in making America great last time round, how does he think he’ll do it this time? Nobody in the media has mentioned this as yet. More doggybollocks - God help us.

I have been told by the passport office that my old passport was water damaged so I had to send a signed letter to tell them how it happened. How do I know? It left my hands when I handed it over at Wolverton post office in perfect condition. Perhaps the passport office drop the occasional one in a bucket to see if it floats? Who knows? Also, my first attempt at photo wasn’t good enough. So, I have had to submit another one. I went to CMK to get a professional one done. The woman in the shop said that my white hair doesn't give a big enough contrast and AI can't see that it is hair. It seems that nothing goes smoothly.

As for my day to day ramblings, things aren’t so bad. I cycle. I get wet. I swim and then expect to get wet. On Thursday, a lady stopped me to tell me I was an absolute inspiration. She said I made it look effortless. Praise indeed! The other week I helped a man, previously known to me as Mr Tidalwave. His style was such that it caused big waves – so big they washed me into the lane ropes when he passed. I lent him my paddles and told him to lengthen his arm pull. It worked. He’s faster than before and I get a better swim too. He told me it is now much smoover, fanks. Praise indeed!

As for the holiday that wasn’t, Diane loves Greece so much, she is still there and now Jeremy has joined her. These circumstances aren’t as good as it seems. Diane fell off a Vespa-type bike on the island and she is now awaiting an operation on a badly broken leg in a hospital in Argos. This is not the Argos near Sainsburys. It is a town on mainland Greece. My heart is with her even though my lack of passport won’t allow me to be there in person.

View from Claydon House on a Sunny day

Claydon House, Florence Nightingale stayed here

I have also had my fill of culture - an art exhibition and a stately home. I went to Claydon House - a National Trust property this week. It is not far from me and well worth a visit. The guided tour was brilliant and I got to see where some of the Bridgerton scenes were filmed. Apparently it is the setting for a number of period films!  There is an exhibition of Vanessa Bell's work at MK Gallery. Vanessa Bell was Virginia Woolf's sister. Brilliant art work on my doorstep. So life is not ALL doggybollocks, just little bits of it. 

Sally goes on her hols.

 It has been very difficult to put a positive spin on this. I was expecting to be in Greece at this time but I’m not. I did all the typical things one does prior to heading off to the sun. Most of all I got really excited about a holiday with Diane in Greece. Now, I am back home feeling really sorry for myself. I have spoilt Diane’s trip. I am full of doubt about my competence. I just don’t feel happy. Ezra-Mae has noticed it, and she has tried to cheer me up. Nothing works. I just feel shitty.

What to do when you can't travel. Thank you Sophie

All started well. Diane and I set off for Gatwick. So far so good. We headed for the gate. Gate 112. Then we were told it was now gate 113. No probs. We queued; showed our boarding passes and were told it was the wrong plane. Ours was halfway across the airport at gate 55. We legged it along with five others. We got there and the gate had closed. We argued but it looked like only the two people who had luggage loaded in the hold would be allowed to board. In the end it was just me they wouldn’t allow to travel.

The worst thing happened. I still can’t quite believe it; my passport was out of date. I expires in June BUT it was 10 years and 3 weeks old. New BREXIT rules… You can only travel to the EU within 10 years of the issue date. Diane left. I got escorted out of the airport like a criminal along with six others from different flights.

The next day I applied for a new passport. I had to put the expiry date of the old one on the form. 17^th June, 2025. Putting that date really galled. I could have travelled to Asia and I would have been fine. Bloody BREXIT. Having looked into this, I found that 2.4m Brits had been caught by this rule before March 2022. That is a lot of disappointed people.

Currently I am living vicariously through Diane’s photos and catching up with her on face time. I am missing a wonderful experience. I think she is missing me. Meanwhile, back at the ranch, I have collected Sally Sourdough starter from Nasser’s house – her holiday home. Sally is my highly excitable, bubbly companion that makes tasty bread. She exploded on one occasion, so I asked Nasser to be nice to her and make her welcome.

Sally does her best.

My bubble friend after a short sojourn 

There is something about a “starter” that makes me feel it is a companion more than a food source. I told Ezra-Mae I had Sally living with me. When I showed her, she was adamant that it wasn’t a person. She now has her own “starter”, Peppa Dough. I wonder where that name came from? Danielle looked on the internet for possible names: Bread Pitt, Brigit Bar-Dough, and Ringo Starter were among the celebrity sobriquets mentioned.

So, along with more than 2.4m failed British travellers and those who elevate their sourdough starters to a high status of being, I feel slightly more normal. It hasn’t stopped the sadness I feel of a failed get-away though. What to do? 

Spectacular

Westminster Abbey in all its glory

It has been quite a week. We are still reeling from the after effects of the rain. The fields around me are still lakes. Last Tuesday I cycled to the orchard, pottered in the polytunnel and then retired to a local café with fellow diggers for spectacular cake and coffee. It was quite a morning. Even in sub zero temperatures, we have a tea break at the orchard itself. Going to a café is something entirely different.

After coffee, I donned my fluorescent waterproof on and battled the elements along the tow path to home. I considered myself to be totally foolhardy even thinking cycling an option. I couldn’t see for the downpour. Then, I met a fellow cyclist on the Iron Trunk bridge. He was splattered with mud. He had a big blob on his cheek and I wondered if I had anything similar. He was a bit lost.  He told me he had set off from Hemel Hempstead and was cycling to Birmingham in the rain! Suddenly, it made my short jaunt seem mundane. He is truly mad!

I went to London this week. The weather was kind on this occasion. Sophie and I had booked a trip to Westminster Abbey. The building is spectacular and even more amazing for the hotch-potch way that people have been remembered. I got the feeling that committees over time had made illogical decisions where to squeeze in yet another statue. Robert Peel has a toga! William Gladstone’s statue is much more in keeping with what he might have worn; and he has a slab too. Mary I and Elizabeth I share a tomb, yet Mary Queen of Scots has a rather more upmarket burial plot. Such is the way of history!

Other bits of the abbey are dedicated to poets, theatre, science, as well as various dead kings and queens. The crowds of visitors spoilt the experience. You could do no more than shuffle along in a sea of people from all over the world. And, with this mixture of cultures, it was difficult to predict who would sensibly stop and allow someone to cross their path. Many of the slabs were difficult to read because someone was standing just where I wanted to read. My verdict! I am pleased I went there but in future I’d like to know when it is likely to be less of a sardine-like experience.

On the way home from London on the 18:56, I experienced the efficiencies of the rail system. I sat and looked out at Bushey station for an age. Then when the train finally shifted, it rolled along at a snail’s pace. That mad cyclist would have got to MK quicker! My legs were so stiff when I actually got to my station, I could hardly stand straight. I was told to claim a refund, which I have done, and in addition to that I used my FREE bus pass on the London buses for the first time. Oh, the joys of getting old! Spectacular!