Posted by: puebloman | March 21, 2010

Occasional Diary 3: Three sheets to the wind

Saturday at http://www.vivasiesta.com

9am It’s Saturday but we don’t do weekends. Guests often arrive and leave at the weekend. They don’t today but today’s “prep” so I get to slouch around in my dressing gown while I catch up with the ironing ahead of next week’s arrivals in all three lets. Judy cleans the flat. Then she cleans it again. And again. It’ s made with “rustic” materials – you can’t clean it. My favourite things to iron are pillow cases.  Flat and compliant they are instant gratification – you can do one in a couple of minutes. My least favourite are “fitted sheets”. You can’t lay them down. They have bits of elastic in them. You have to go all round the edge then all over the middle and you always miss bits. It doesn’t help to remember that  fitted sheets never fit. Next time I buy a bed I will get the bed, the mattress and a fitted sheet all at the same time thus ensuring that I don’t end up trying to fit a “queen” to a “double” or a “king” to a “queen”.

10.15 Jon comes round. Jon’s an artist. He’s in his late 50’s like us but looks 80. Gaunt and shaky, he has spent his life rejecting medical care and taking wierd quack potions made by wierd quack gurus by the waxing and waning of the moon. He has long had arthritic conditions that have now damaged his liver. He wants us to print a new book he has made but our machine rejects his flash key with red virus warnings. Like owner like flash key.

2pm I have done about 4 hours of ironing. On radio 7 I listened to the last episode of “Hard Times”, a Colin Dexter short story, three episodes of Alan Bennet’s “Telling Tales”, and on radio 4 to the news, tomore news and to Melvyn Bragg chatting to three academics about Miracles. Thank God for British radio. Thank God for “listen again”

2.45 The peeping of the bread machine signals lunch. The bread is made with a German bread mix from Lidles. Hot and spongy. Jude produces some glorious sandwiches.

3.45 I trail down to the veg garden, splattered by inevitable raindrops. The sky has been dark and threatening all day. We are halfway through strawberry time and it still feels like winter. In the garden there is chard and ruby chard, onions, purple sprouting, Lombard red cabbage, broccoli, celery, parsley, spinach, early tomatoes and broad beans. The haricots died in the cold and dark. Chillies that I planted out are dead for lack of sun and heat. My lettuces are huge and going over through the massive surfeit of water. I cut three lettuces and some “come again” leaves, some rocket. I leave half with us and take the rest to Beatrice at the Chemists.

5.30 I am working at the computer and suddenly find myself asleep, slumped over the desk. Hypoglycemia. These diabetic attacks have become more sudden and stronger in the past few weeks. There is not quite enough suger running my brain for it to instruct my muscles, so I can’t move. I seem to hang as though  in the air for years and years and. . . Judy puts a bottle of coke in my hand. “Drink it, Drink it all” she says. I do as I’m told. My head clears. Coke is the most powerful suger rush known to medical science. I’m soon sentient again. Now I really do want to sleep, and sleep deep as though sleeping off a huge hangover. . .just curl up and sleep . . .


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