one lintel cut in half

You will be aware of the building work going on at the moment – well the bit I’ve been dreading happened on Friday. The three huge lintels above the kitchen windows and door came out and the three steel girders went in. One of the builders didn’t pitch up so there were just two of them. Literally a monumental job!

The builders tried to leave the lintels in one piece, trying to preserve them, as there must be quite a bit of history attached – the cottage pre-dating the battle of Waterloo. However, it was just too dangerous, so they cut the biggest two in half.

I have been living on a building site for a few months, but now my kitchen is no longer habitable. I go into it to get water and do the dishes, but otherwise mum and I are camped out in the sitting room. Not easy!

The lintels

Spider defends his territory

Spider Defends his Territory

Not long after I started knocking the plaster off the bathroom wall I was joined by my pall the spider that lives in the crevice just in the corner where the wall joins the ceiling. I thought all my banging and hammering had disturbed him and he was off to find a new place to dwell.

Not so, he seems determined to sit it out even though I’m getting closer and closer. At first I thought he was playing possum, but he frequently turns around to face in the opposite direction.

Bob the builder (yes, really) asked why I assume he’s male and I wasn’t able to answer that question. He suggested it is because he is big and ugly and I thought maybe he was right (though by spider standards he/she may be very lovely and perhaps we should start to think so). However, I also refer in the masculine the pretty little spider that I’ve had to recue from the bath three times this week. Now he really does have a death wish. When I spotted him yesterday I was already showering and looked down to see a black speck. Being sans specs, I thought I should investigate further, switched off the shower and leapt out to find my glasses. Shock horror – a crumpled mess of spider! Drastic action called for – tissue and a thin price tag from one of the garments I had just sent to my granddaughter.

Lay spider on toilet tissue, slight movement in two legs. Turn him over with the price tag then leave him for a bit. Apparently dead, but I can’t be doing with that. Maybe he’s just stuck to the card (it happens – I once had to free up a tree frog that was stuck by his back to a door casing. In a heavy rainstorm he had squeezed through the small gap between the top of the door and when the sun came out, his back had dried onto the casing, so that when I opened the door he was suspended. I had to get a paintbrush and gently paint him with water until I loosened him).

Back to the spider – gently turn him over on the tissue, only then from the tiny tangle of body and legs, could I make out which way up he was meant to be. Then, after a few minutes, transfer him to the windowsill and slowly and surely he began to find his feet and off he went – hopefully a bit wiser!

But what to do with Mister Big? Not a clue, I’ll just have to continue with my work until he makes his move!

River Hodder

When Paul and I fell in love we used to spend hours driving around the Lancashire and Yorkshire countryside – until my pelvis fractured with the secondary bone cancer. Bumping along in his Suzuki Jeep was not the most comfortable place to be! But eventually I made a recovery and we were back on the road again. We would picnic on tuna and sweet corn sandwiches with crisps – washed down with coffee from a flask. He would often stop, grab his sketchbook and pencil and draw a row of telegraph poles, clumps of grass or a dry stone wall. He was very much a landscape artist and it was so good to see him working again – after years of neglecting his artwork.

On occasions he would drive by the Inn at Whitewell, nestled in the heart of rural Lancashire and overlooking the River Hodder. This is where he promised we would spend a few days after our wedding. Although we sometimes stopped outside he never actually took me in and it seemed he was saving it for that special occasion – an occasion that sadly was never to happen.

On summer solstice last year I was invited by two of my friends, Ina & Norman, to the Inn at Whitewell, for dinner and I have just rediscovered the photos, which I would like to share with you.

My hosts, Norman & Ina

Norman & Me

The Inn at Whitewell

In the shower yesterday morning I suddenly decided to put some treatment wax on my dry and brittle hair.

Just drying it off I remembered it had been my intention to start knocking the thick plaster off my bathroom wall. It’s been bothering me since Paul and I moved in 20 years ago. It bothered him too and now the time has come to dispose of the extremely dated (guessing 1970s by the colour) and worn out bathroom fittings. My objection to the plastering is that the washbasin and bath are sunk into it, which looks awful – and the new washbasin is slightly bigger, so I intend to shove the whole thing back as far as it will go.

I know Paul wouldn’t have bothered with this extra mess (I’m been struggling with the extension upheaval for three months), so he would have taken the easier option of placing the basin in front of the existing wall  – but he didn’t have any problem leaning over it to reach up to open or close the window, as I do. So there I am, newly washed and treated hair, all done up in curls and about to start a very dusty job! Tried wearing the shower cap, but discovered it too tight for long periods, so I ended up Land Girl style with a scarf around my head. Not attractive, but perhaps a bit more acceptable when I then put a dust mask over my face – rather fancying my as a surgeon!

I was very mindful of chiselling my way around the washbasin and cistern, so as not to dislodge them from the wall. Not quite successful in that, as I came across a damp patch of plaster to the right of the basin and the whole lot fell off, leaving the basin rather precariously balanced. I wedged in a chunk of browning and now hoping for the best!

What to do with the wall cupboard posed another question. I need the things in it to be accessible. If I take it down now I’ll have to find a place for it and already the house is packed with boxes from the now demolished utility room and the about- to-be demolished kitchen. So – I’ve decided to leave the cupboard in place until the bathroom is about to be fitted, which will be after the disabled shower loo is installed downstairs (which may be some time!) I reckon the fiddly work is already done and as soon as the cupboard comes down I’ll get the plaster off quite quickly.

But what a job clearing up the mess – who have thought that small area would make so much rubble? Many bucketsful, but fortunately I have a large skip at the front! The strapping young Ben came by with Doodle the puppy as I was emptying some stuff – and asked what I was doing. I told him – to which he replied, “All by yourself?”

the dated bathroom

washbasin embedded into wall

close up

Being unable to sell my house and get a bungalow for my mum’s convenience, I decided to extend into my already tiny garden, incorporating a shower loo, so that mum could spend her days on one level. The garden was lovely and now for three months it has been a building site. the work was delayed on account of the extreme weather over the Christmas period, but now the extension is beginning to take shape.

It’s 1.45 and Mother is on the rampage again. She woke me an hour ago and in the space of 15 minutes had me up four times with her messing about. Now I can’t get back to sleep and she is muttering away in that awful deep voice that she conjures up in the night.

This current situation had been going on now for over two weeks. Occasionally she is shattered and will sleep most of the night, but I am so used to her waking me up that I wake up naturally and then have to go and check on her.

I am particularly alert at the moment, as she fell over last evening and hurt her leg, so she is walking worse than ever and I am frightened she may fall again and do herself a serious injury.

Before going to bed I let her soak in a warm bath, thinking it would help ease the sore joint and it was only when she took her clothes off did I realise that she had badly bruised and cut her arm as she put it out to save herself as she fell. I had been dozing on the settee on account of last night’s lack of sleep due to her pacing across the landing incessantly. Just as I was dozing off she would leap up and head for the kitchen. As it is in disarray at the moment, with boxes all over the place on account of have the improvements done (for her benefit). I didn’t want her setting foot in there in case she collided with something.

“What are you looking for?”

“The toilet!”

“There is no toilet in the kitchen, you are going the wrong way. It is upstairs.”

“So I can’t go to the toilet then?”

“It is upstairs, you are going the wrong way.” The conversation continues in the same way until I had to get up and take her to the toilet – and so it continued for about an hour. Finally I was allowed my 40 winks then suddenly I roused to find her off to the kitchen again. “What do you want now?”

“The toilet.”

“I keep telling you, the toilet isn’t through there, it’s upstairs.” Still she takes no notice and heads for the kitchen. Still dozy I leap up to get her, by this time she is a yard into the kitchen as I take her arm. “Now look – where is the toilet in here? There isn’t any and never has been, but soon there will be one in this direction.” I try and lead her out, but she turns violently and pulls away from my grip – only to end up on the floor. No doubt blaming me as she always does, but to any onlooker it would be obvious why she fell.

I have to get her to her feet, which further exacerbates my bad back, caused by Sunday’s performance. I see she is limping more than usual and check out her leg. I can see no visible sign of damage apart from a few scratches, but I guess it will soon become bruised. I then decide on the soothing bath. What a joke that turned out to be. When she got undressed I discovered a great bruise on her arm and a couple of gashes where she must have banged herself as she put out her arm to save herself. I suppose it could have been worse, as last time she broke it!

I tucked her up in bed around 11pm and I retired around ten to midnight, but couldn’t sleep at first as I was wondering it my dishwasher would be delivered between 6am and 8am as promised. I guess I dropped off before 12.15am only to be wakened by mother half an hour later – and that was only the beginning of a night of no further sleep whatsoever. She paced around constantly until in the end I decided to film her, as it was apparent that it was pointless me returning to bed. I ran the batteries down in my camera and while I was trying to get a bit of charge back in them I went on Facebook and also sent a few emails. I made a few audio recordings as even when she was in bed she was talking incessantly in that deep masculine voice. Then the pacing started once again. I got dressed around 4 am.

Though I hold the late diagnosis of her urine infection partly to blame (how can it take 10 days to get a result?), she had been on antibiotics for over a week now, so therefore feel that this is the dementia moving on to a different stage.

My dishwasher arrived at 6.30am – marvellous – so now it is adorning the sitting room, as the kitchen still isn’t finished – or even started!

At 9am I received a call from the department, asking if I could take Mum for an earlier appointment at 1pm, as the scanning department would probably be closing early for the holiday. ‘Yeah – right!’ – and they didn’t understand why they had given a new patient an appointment so late, anyway.

I was glad of the earlier appointment, as it took me further away from midnight where I had spent those awful hours four years earlier. We made our way to a totally empty waiting room, which didn’t fill me with confidence. I sat there listening o the staff wishing each other a happy new year and all the best and all the other greetings heralding in the coming year and the parting of the old one. ‘Please, will someone get me out of here!’ Eventually a tall slim nurse strode towards us and I realised it was Paul’s relative – another reminder of his funeral. She took the notes through to the consulting room, but then returned to tell us, that having read the notes, the earlier appointment hadn’t been necessary, as Mum would not be having the scan etc. She apologised profusely and offered to make us a cuppa, as the vascular surgeon wasn’t yet due in.

Fortunately the surgeon did arrive early and we only waited about an hour. Given my mum’s age, he didn’t think the surgery was a good idea and I concurred, but said my concern was due to the GP telling me that if the aortic artery ruptured, an internal bleed would be very painful. He agreed with this, but said if it just leaked, then medication could be given for the pain, but if it did rupture, then it would be over very quickly. However, he was obliged to tell me that this condition usually ran in families and there is a one in four chance of me having the same condition. As I was 65 he asked if I wanted a scan. Deja vu! Some 12 years earlier when I had my dad at the hospital regarding his many blood tests, it was discovered he had the genetic condition, alpha thalassaemia and after a subsequent blood test, it was discovered I carried the disorder too. At the time, the surgeon said it was in no way dangerous, unlike beta thalassaemia, and would only mean we could be (and often were) inappropriately prescribed iron supplements, which had always made Dad and me unwell.

Later, when I was to research the condition on the Internet, I discovered that in fact it results in less oxygen to the brain. As Dad was suffering from dementia I felt really depressed regarding my old age and especially now that Mother has a mixture of dementia and Alzheimer’s, so my future really looks bleak. Apart from that, my research told me that I could also have passed the gene to my sons and if they do have it, then so could their children. (Now the nasty bit) …

What is alpha thalassemia?

Thalassemia is an inherited disorder that affects the production of normal hemoglobin (a type of protein in red blood cells that carries oxygen to the tissues of the body). Thalassemia includes a number of different forms of anemia. The severity and type of anemia depends upon the number of genes that are affected.

Alpha thalassaemia

The alpha chain is produced by four genes and the severity of the condition depends on how many of those genes have been mutated.

• If one gene is mutated, there is little or no effect.
• If two genes are mutated, there may be symptoms of mild anaemia. This condition is known as the alpha thalassaemia trait. If two people with the alpha thalassaemia trait have a child, there is a one-in-four chance that their child will inherit the most severe form of alpha thalassaemia (see below).
• If three genes are mutated, the result will be a condition called haemoglobin H disease. People with haemoglobin H disease will have lifelong (chronic) anaemia and may require regular blood transfusions.

If all four genes are mutated, the result will be the most severe form of alpha thalassaemia, known as alpha thalassaemia major. Infants with this condition are unable to produce normal haemoglobin and are unlikely to survive pregnancy. There have been some cases of unborn babies being treated with blood transfusions while still in the womb, but this type of treatment has a low success rate.

(Excerpt from NHS Choices).

Neither of my sons has taken the test!

Having told the vascular surgeon that I would like the scan to ascertain whether I have an aortic aneurysm or not, I drove away from the hospital wondering whether, in fact, I should. Would it affect my holiday insurance (it is already loaded on account of my cancer) in the unlikely event of me getting out to Hong Kong next year – or any holiday, for that matter? What would happen to my mum if I had to go into hospital? Wouldn’t I just be better popping of quickly without knowing about it? So many ifs and buts!

I tried to do some retail therapy on the way home from the hospital, but everywhere was gridlocked and I only got as far as Matalan where I found nothing to buy in the short time I could allow myself in the store, with Mum waiting in the car. I found a purple hat at £2.50, which I quite liked, but when I saw the queue I returned it to its rack.

Feeling really depressed we continued home and I looked in the freezer for something for dinner, but found nothing other than a breast of frozen goose that I had bought for Christmas – before Adrienne had invited Mum and me to hers, some pork sausages, some vegetarian sausages, some ice cream, some mussels (which Mum won’t eat), two packs of salmon, but although I could have quickly defrosted them, I didn’t feel like peeling vegetables to make a meal. Otherwise there was some bread and a large pack of ice cubes! No frozen dinners for Mum – so clearly I hadn’t been concentrating on my last visit to Iceland!

I was starving, having had an early lunch of a pack of crisps and four Tuc crackers. My mum was only slightly better off with having a cheese sandwich and a mince pie! Now feeling really down, living every moment of the run up to that New Year four years earlier – ‘what if – what if?’

I defrosted a couple of sausages for Mum and did a fried egg for both of us. Mum had bread to dunk in the yolk and as I was still peckish I had a chunk of cheese.

Now heavily into the Crabbies Mac I was becoming more and more maudlin. Everything I watched on TV had a New Year’s party in full swing, till at 10.30 I could take no more and got Mum and me ready for bed. I had the common sense to take the hands free phone with me – on the off chance that I got a midnight call, totally forgetting that my mum, now sleeping in the small bedroom where the computer is, can also be disturbed by the phone.

Just after midnight the phone rang – Stewart with his best wishes and telling me they were watching the fireworks at Edinburgh castle, which they could see from Isabella’s bedroom. When he hung up I had to go and get mum back to bed and no sooner had my head hit the pillow than the phone rang again, ‘hello, hello’, but nobody answering. Thinking it was a wrong number I stayed silent for a few minutes hoping to receive an apology from the caller, but none came. The racket continued and I realised I recognised those voices – they belonged to the revellers at Craig and Tony’s dinner party – that meant (probably) it was Adrienne phoning me. ‘Adrienne, Adrienne, I can’t hear you, can you hear me?’ Still nothing, but then I heard her voice talking to someone and it was then that I realised that perversely I had been thrown into the midst of the dinner party that I had declined, because this night is one of those when I just can’t cope with the jollities! I text Craig to ask him to tell Adrienne her phone line is open.

Sleep now eludes me, as it does Mum. I toss and turn all night long and Mum is up and down too. Morning comes, but it is so dull and dismal that I don’t realise the time and drift off to sleep again – only to be disturbed once more by the phone. It’s Joan, very kindly phoning from Zambia. I don’t tell her that I am still in bed, but of course the phone has disturbed mother too, so I have that to contend with.

We chat away and I tell Joan about last night and my Christmas Eve up the ladder etc and she says I really do have rotten luck. I say that in the grand scheme of things it isn’t too bad – like I haven’t just had a daughter murdered, or other family tragedy. I have a home, heating and everything we take for granted, but the little things that go wrong are relentless and slowly grinding me down. I always knew how good Paul was around the house, but now I am constantly being reminded.

Craig responds to my text from last night and I call him back. He says how perverse that I was unwittingly thrown into the dinner party that I was so anxious to avoid and through no fault of my own. Like I am viewing it from some parallel universe.

I have texts at midnight from Cath, Leo and Justin, but haven’t responded to them because I was otherwise occupied with the Adrienne phone call. I reply to Justin and Cath, but the one to Leo doesn’t go and I receive a message that I don’t have enough credit!

Eileen calls me and I have a nice chat with her. She knows where I am coming from and the emptiness of being a widow.

Come 2pm I asked Mum if she needed the toilet, as she hadn’t been since lunchtime. She looked at me as if I was off my trolley – how could I possibly imagine she needed the loo? Even with all her protestations, I insisted she go and what a good thing I had, as she was about to do a monumental crap. A crap that just emphatically refused to flush away even though time after time I tried!

Just after dark I remembered what was lurking in the porcelain and so I went upstairs to try again, flicked on the bathroom light switch and all the lights in the house fused! Now whereas most people can go and trip a switch on their consumer units and lights are restored, I cannot do that. I have to pull out the correct fuse from the electric box, get a screwdriver and loosen the screws, then take out the broken wire, cut a new piece of the correct wire, thread it through the holes and tighten the screws without breaking the wire again. Hardly difficult to do and I’ve done it once before, but not easy in the dark. As today is the anniversary of Paul’s death – the day my lights went out metaphorically, then it seemed symbolic to sit in semi darkness for the rest of the evening. I fixed the fuse next morning.

All of a sudden the defrosting of the pipe suddenly got easier, I just took it inside, filled the sink with hot water in which I stuck one end of the pipe, bashed it a few times, turned it over and out came a metre long sausage of ice.

The chances of getting a plumber on Christmas Eve in freezing conditions in the most appalling winter for years, was nigh on impossible – and even if I could get one I didn’t feel like waiting around for one to arrive, especially as I promised Paul’s aunt that I would go and visit her in the afternoon. So, on my way there I stopped off at John’s Cut Price and bought some lagging.

Back home after visiting Edna, I was up the ladder again, trying to attach the lagging when the pipe dropped off again and I realised the bit adjoining the elbow joint had actually broken and as it is half embedded in the rendering I didn’t want to make matters worse by chipping the rendering away to get access.

I thought I could tie the bath waste pipe to the wash basin pipe directly above it, but having had cupboards ripped out of the kitchen to accommodate the washer & drier, I couldn’t remember which box I’d packed the string in, so I fastened the pipe up with a carrier bag! 11 days later, so far so good.

My building extension first going to plan in the summer, suddenly actually started in a flurry of activity in November, but then ground to a halt with the weather. Since then the two builders found alternative work and so my project manager, is having to look elsewhere. He has arranged to come with a friend on Monday – if it isn’t raining. I don’t know what the forecast is for Monday, but it’s currently snowing again!

The weekend of the 4^th December I was invited to visit my son and his family up in Scotland. They’ve recently moved to anther coastal village east of Edinburgh and it would be the first time I’ve seen their new home. Even on the Friday night before my trip it was very uncertain, as the weather was appalling. Stewart and I spent hours on the Internet and/or phone trying to get an answer to the likelihood of disruptions to the train service. One of the calls I made must have been to India and after about 5 minutes of the guy asking me to wait (as he attempted to gain the info) he eventually gave me a UK number, which I had already phoned!

On the www.thetrainline.com I decided on instant chat – except I had to wait around 10 minutes to get a ‘live’ response. I’m no typist so it was taking me ages to ask my question, with the guy on the other end writing, ‘are you still there?’ Quite an extraordinary palaver – and it would have taken far less time speaking to him in person, but that was not an option  – other than the numbers already phoned.

Firstly, I had to write my details including my booking reference. I was informed I was 7^th in the queue, then after watching the clock tick away we were up and running:

Kiran: “Hi, my name is Kiran, (maybe we were back in India) how may I help you?”

Me: “Hi – I need to know about possible disruptions to the service tomorrow morning – to Longniddry”

Kiran: “Hello, Patricia J”

Me: “Hello”

Kiran: “Sure, I will be glad to assist you.”

Kiran: ‘May I have the complete journey details, please?”

Kiran: “Are you there?”

I explain that I don’t want to pay for a taxi to get to the station the following morning if I would be turned back somewhere along the journey. Also I was taking my mother that afternoon to respite care and I didn’t want to waste that money, either. Apart from all that, I’m an OAP ill equipped for a night in the snow.

Kiran: “I do understand your concern and apologise for the inconvenience caused to you, on this occasion. I mean to ask, please provide an Origin and Destination station of your journey, so that I can provided (sic) you with an appropriate information”.

Kiran: *provide.

Me: “Blackburn Lancashire – Longniddry”

Kiran: “OK”

Kiran: “Patricia, thank you for providing the above information”.

Kiran: “Please give me a few minutes so that I can find the information.

Kiran: (Listening)

Kiran: “Thank you for your patience”

Me: “OK”

Kiran: “Please note, the train services are amended for your planned route, by the service provider. The train services may be cancelled if weather conditions deteriorate further or they may be delayed.”

Kiran: “I hope this information is helpful.”

Me: “Do you advise me to cancel?”

Kiran: “I request you to please be careful and accordingly plan your alternate journey. Sure, I advise you to cancel, in this case.”

Me: ‘There is no alternate route for me – so do I go to your main website to cancel?”

Kiran: Please note, as we have not received any update from the service provider regarding your train disruptions, I request you to contact the Customer Relations Team on 0845 00 00 125, where an advisor will be happy to assist you, with your issue. Please accept my apologies for the inconvenience caused to you, as we are not authorised to process a refund/compensation on behalf of a service provider.

Kiran: “Hope this information is helpful.”

Me: “OK”

Kiran: “Is there anything else I may assist you with?”

Me: “Wish there was.”

Kiran: “Are you there?”

Kiran: “OKJ”

Kiran: “Thank you for contacting the trainline.com”

Me: “OK, bye”

Kiran: “Have a nice day and stay safeJ”

Me: “r u having a laugh?!”

Kiran: “Bye, Patricia.”

Kiran: “Please click on the ‘Hang Up’ button.”

Me “OK”

Now wouldn’t that have been quicker on the phone?

In the meantime Stewart was checking the Met Office and saying the weather was due to improve the following day and as I had to come to a decision that night (had to leave for the station by 6.50next morning), so I decided to risk it.

Next morning I walked to the main road to pick up my taxi, as my road was treacherous with snow and ice (very hard to pull a suitcase on that surface – and I also discovered that when pulling it up the long sloping ramp at the station, in fact I had to pull myself up with the aid of the railings). The train was on time and at Preston I had time for a coffee – well, if there had been any! Unfortunately I had queued for five minutes before receiving that information!

“So there are no hot drinks?’

Quick flick of head by the assistant – indicating that I go to his left to the adjoining café. I join that queue as the time ticks on, eventually having to abandon the coffee and go onto the platform for my train that was remarkably on time and arrived in Edinburgh also on time, receiving intermittent calls on my mobile, from my son who was at home watching the train’s progress on the internet. He reliably informed me that the North Berwick train was on schedule and the platform I would find it on.

With just 10 minutes to spare I found the platform and settled down in my seat on the train. I texted my son, “On train!”

“Let me know when you are moving.”

“Moving!”

Within a few minutes I started thinking that the train was making peculiar noises. I have little experience of submarines, but have seen several movies and could honestly say that previously I had never heard a train making sonar pings and deeper pings.  Still we chugged along, until we appeared to be coasting for a while, and then chugging again at snail’s pace.

We limped into Wallyford, which I thought sounded inauspicious – and limped out again. Stop start – coast – until the appearance of the conductor, telling us what we had guessed already – there was a fault with the train and the driver was trying to sort it. Not long after, she returned to make a note of the destinations of all the passengers.

Text from Stewart now at the station in Longniddry – “where are you?”

“No longer moving!”

I phone him, tell him the story and he instructs me to get off at Preston Pans. I wonder if we will make it there, but I guess it is downhill from Wallyford as we start rolling again.

As I get my things together to leave the train early, the conductress appears in the carriage once again, informing all of the passengers that the train is well and truly stuffed and everyone must get off!

Stewart was there to greet me and we loaded the car with the Christmas presents and gardening books for Nicky – and the rucksack containing my clothes. By the time we reached the road there were two stranded passengers standing at the exit (one each side of the car), looking mystified as they looked up and down the road. We wound the windows down and ask each of them if we could help. They were looking for the bus stop, but didn’t know which way to walk. Stewart was able to tell them that the bus actually does a loop through the houses and doesn’t  pass by the station, so he offered to give them a lift to the bus stop – after asking if either of them was going to Longniddry. The elderly gentleman was going to the end of the line at North Berwick and the young woman was going to Drem, where she would be picked up and taken to her place of work at a golf club.

The buses only ran every hour from Edinburgh and probably not on time due to the weather. As Stewart drove further east to find a bus shelter, it occurred to me that our two passengers would have longer to wait for the bus – and in sub zero temperatures. I was just thinking that if I were driving, I would take them to their destinations. No sooner had that thought crossed my mind, than Stewart announced that he would do exactly that. A chip of the old block!

We dropped the young lady at the end of the golf club drive (Stewart would have taken her to the door except the lane looked treacherous and he was now running late to collect my granddaughter from school at lunchtime) and as she was getting out she thanked Stewart profusely and said she never ceases to be amazed by the kindness of strangers.

We continued to North Berwick. The Gentleman said we should just drop him at the station – unless we wanted to take him to his house where he would be delighted to give us a couple of bottles of wine. As time was running out and Stewart would have to backtrack towards Edinburgh and Victoria’s school, Stewart declined the kind offer.

I didn’t see much of Victoria that day, as she had a party in the afternoon and a sleepover. The following day we went for lunch at the local pub and then Stewart and the girls had a good time sledging with a group of people on the golf course. The weather was bright and the sun glinted off the thick snow and it was many degrees below freezing.

I was leaving with Stewart on Monday morning and found that the Met Office had been extraordinarily inaccurate with their forecast of mild weather. It was blowing a blizzard! Stewart said that instead of us walking to Longniddry station, Nicky was going to take us further along the line towards Edinburgh, as she was taking the girls to school. Just before we left the phone rang and it was the girls’ bus driver saying he was collecting the girls as usual. Nicky told him not to bother, as she had to get her mother-in-law to the station and so she may as well take the girls.

The driving was bad, with cars parked up at the side of the main road with the side roads impassable. The snowplough had carved its way through, so the owners of the parked cars were now having to dig themselves out and in many places it was single file traffic. Nevertheless we made the station just in time to catch the train where it was standing room only, due to there only being two carriages.

We arrived at Waverley with only a few minutes to spare before my train left. Stewart travelled with me as far as the next station, Hay Market. My booked seat was in the last carriage and when he got up to leave he made his way to the end door which was the nearest. Within minutes he was backtracking along the carriage to the next door, as when he went to alight from the train there was no platform! Fortunately he just managed to leap off before the guard blew his whistle.

The Virgin Super Voyager sped southwards, making good time, until Lancaster that is, where we seemed to wait for an inordinately long time, until came the announcement, “Sorry for the delay, the mail train ahead of us is having problems and we will be on our way as soon as possible.”

After a while, “we apologise to customers, the mail train had broken down and is blocking the line. This train will terminate here and return to Edinburgh. You will have to leave the train now and await further advice.” Everyone left the train in an orderly fashion, except for one inebriated fellow who I had seen in the buffet car just after we left Edinburgh. He seemed well under the influence then, so by now (two hours later), he was well and truly zonked! I kindly passenger roused him from his stupor and tried to explain the situation. Very disgruntled he got to his feet and lurched in the general direction of the door, fortunately unable to fall as we were jammed like sardines. When finally I did make it to the platform the inebriated man was pushing his way back to the train as he had left his coat!

The evicted passengers were now huddled on the platform as far as the eye could see, all of them freezing cold, but scared to move away in case they missed an announcement. Eventually it came by way of an apology and instruction for us to move to the waiting room to await further announcements, but where we would be nice and warm. Joke! It was a vast waiting room with four of the smallest wall heaters, which didn’t even seem to be on. Twice more passengers loitering on the platform were urged to go to the warmth of the waiting room. Needless to say this caused much hilarity!

The next announcement was to tell us to make our way to the concourse where two coaches were waiting to bus us to Preston. They could carry 50 passengers each, so it was a case of first come, first served. In a surprisingly orderly fashion we carried out the instruction. I was approximately number 20 in the queue, but like several of the passengers ahead of me, I had to leave the queue in order to put my bag into the hold. Having done so, I then walked towards the front of the bus to find my place, as the ones ahead of me had done. I stood back to let a couple of elderly ladies go ahead of me when suddenly a railway employee asked us to stand back so that he could climb on board to count the remaining places. Having done so he disembarked, saying there were only 12 places left and he started to count the passengers on, touching each one as an indication for them to climb aboard. I was standing immediately to his left, right by the door of the bus, but he was totally ignoring me – and clearly counting passengers who had been behind me. Yet another perfect example of older women being invisible! When he got to around 8 or 9 I had to chip in, “excuse me, my bag is on the bus.’ But still he continued counting. When finally he got to number 12 he said, “I haven’t counted you!”

“I know – and that’s why I’ve been telling you my bag is on the bus!” He stared at me blankly until number 12, a tall young man who looked like a student said, “this lady can go instead of me – her bag is on the bus.” I thanked him profusely. The kindness of strangers again! I climbed onto the bus and was relieved to find that the railway official had miscounted and in fact there was room for the kind young man and one other passenger too.

Obviously I missed my connection at Preston – as I had also done on my previous two excursions! At least it wasn’t too late to collect my mother from respite care, unlike last time, when I had to take a taxi from Preston to Blackburn, costing me £25, which was almost the total cost of my return fare from Blackburn to Birmingham!