The date was 30 June 1999. The day we moved to the country to live the dream. Of course, nothing ever goes smoothly in house moving (sorry, Jane!) and at the bottom of our (fairly short) chain was a nubie. A first time buyer. We nearly lost the cottage because, poor unadvised, inexperienced soul that he was, walked around with the signed contract in his pocket for nearly two weeks. Two weeks! Aargh……..
Moving up from Kent was deemed a “two day move” by our removal company. I think we must have had THE biggest articulated removal truck in the whole world. We live on a single track lane. Savvy? (Sorry, HUGE Johnny Depp fan! Well, actually, HUGE Jack Sparrow fan, if you must know). Truck + single track lane = total gridlock in the country. New neighbours? Not impressed. Especially as we were held up until 4pm, and we’d been told we’d complete at 12noon. First time buyer had last minute hiccup with mortgage. Ah! There would be a slight delay. At 3pm our solicitor rang (thank heavens for mobiles): “Erm (cough), if this doesn’t get sorted out, we might have to delay completion until tomorrow.” WHAT?
Now, what I haven’t told you is that my mum and dad were also helping us move. In fact, they were the ones who “found” our cottage for us. Back-tracking slightly (I do this a lot, sorry) we had been trawling, correction; I had been trawling the countryside for suitable rural retreats for months. Won’t bore you with the details, so blah, blah, blah (forward winding the tape) we were getting desperate. J was sitting pretty back at home in Kent: “No, darling….. you go. You know what we want. You do the first viewings and draw up a shortlist. Then I’ll come”. Canny bugger.
Why is it that you can explain to an estate agent that you live nearly 200 hundred miles away and so don’t want a wasted journey, but they still tell you that you “must view this one”. Er, I said NO: pigs, pylons, pubs or main roads (thanks to Kirstie Allsop). I’d almost given up. Well, actually, I had, temporarily.
The big move was also, partly, so that we could be nearer my family. We are close. Very close. But, it’s not just that. Modern families seem so disjointed nowadays, don’t they? Years ago, families lived near one another. Mum’s helped daughters with their kids. Big family roasts on a Sunday, Easter, Christmas…….. and just because. So, mum and dad were going off on one of their “days out”. They do it every week, now they are retired. One evening, the phone rang and it was mum: “I’ve found it!!” No, hello darling, how are you? Just, “I’ve found it!” And so she had……..
Forward wind to 30 June 1999 again. We’d arrived too early, of course, delirious with excitement. Previous occupants were still moving out so we camped in the garden. I was 32 years old – a grown up. But it was still mum who had provided the cool box with sandwiches, cake, a flask of coffee (tea is always so horrid in a flask, isn’t it?), deck chairs even! God bless her!! J had come up separately in his van, and, lucky for us, the previous occupants let us have a wander around the house before it was officially ours. The landing window affords the most stunning view and mum opened the window and leaned out to admire it. “Right, everyone out!” called the “outgoing” owners. Oh! They explained that the estate agent had said to lock up and push the key through the letter box. No admittance until completion proper. Humbug.
Forward wind again to 3.40pm. Phone call from solicitor – it was ours! Trip to town to collect keys from agent………. In the meantime, good old mum confessed she had left the landing window open deliberately. Removal men rummage in truck for ladder…….. hey, presto! J scrambles up, climbs in and retrieves key from inside porch. I go off to town, but by the time I got back, they’d half unloaded and mum was making tea! We’d arrived.
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
Boating Injury
Seven months on and I’m still sporting a “BI” bruise. That’s “Boating Injury” to you. It’s along the lines of “UBI” and “UWI” – “unexplained beer injury” and “unexplained wine injury” respectively. (These are the injuries/bruises you discover when your friends/loved ones have had a negative influence on you). Only, this isn’t unexplained – I remember it VERY clearly.
Last August, J took me to the river for the day. All part of our “lifestyle change” when we moved to the country. Only, it isn’t very often that we “allow” ourselves the time off to just enjoy being here. Anyway, I’m shooting off at a tangent again. We don’t live far from the Wye and there’s a great pub along the bank at Symond’s Yat for refreshments after a hard afternoon kayaking. We decided to share a boat (I don’t “do” boats on my own) after much pathetic pleading from yours truly. We were rigged out (no pun intended) with all the protective gear (Michelin Man style) and proceeded down to the water’s edge. The sky was blue, not a cloud in the sky and the birds were singing. Perfect boating day. Mr Boat-man held the rope to control the boat while we got in.
I don’t know what it is, but whenever I get near water, I turn into the proverbial dumb blonde, even though I’m officially a brunette (with red bits!). At the best of times, I have zero co-ordination (I was sacked from the rounders team and am appalling at tennis). Any common sense I possess disappeared that very second. I started to put my leg out to step down into the boat, only to be hauled back by the scruff of my protective floatable jacket thing. “Nooooo!” yelled J. God, he DOES know how to show me up! Tactful he ain’t.
It’s like when you’re out in a group, (I’m usually driving on these occasions, don’t know why!), copious quantities of alcohol have flowed (I’m on sparkling water) and the men start getting, well, what can only be described as rugby playerish. (Admittedly, this mainly happens when the ex-rugby team gets together). You know, how they start to tell “those” jokes and laugh raucously. J is particularly good at telling jokes, and likes to “hold court”. On these occasions, there is usually a time when wifey decides that hubby is getting a bit close to the mark. Tactfully (as wifey does), I try to give him “the look”. The one that most wives reserve for moments when husband is about to make a huge gaff, and that mothers reserve for children who are rapidly running out of rope. Now, a woman would get the message if hubby looked at her like that, and realize he was (that bloomin’ spelling thing’s done it again. I want an “s” not a “z”!!) trying to save her embarrassment. A woman would then be a bit more self aware, and turn the notch down a bit. No, I’m afraid that J has a very thick skin. Not only does he not mind being embarrassed in the slightest, but he will then say (very loudly, because being drunk means you need to shout as your hearing goes): “What’s the matter, love? You’ve given me the look! Am I getting loud and embarrassing? Sorry, hun, I’ll be quiet now. (For clarity – hun is short for honey, NOT Attila. Just wanted to clear that one up.) Actually, I don’t feel great – can we go now?” Don’t you just HATE it when that happens?
So, having been hauled unceremoniously backwards, by tactless husband, I am left flushing with shame that I didn’t wait for Mr Boat-man to actually hold the boat tight into the side before I attempted to get in. First minor accident prevented.
Finally, we got under way and, once J stopped behaving like a 13 year old and wobbling the boat from side to side just to make me squeal, we had an extremely pleasant afternoon. We saw a kingfisher, swans and the usual riverside activities. We didn’t see the peregrines that day, though. I love looking at all the gorgeous houses with their own private moorings (confession: I’m one of those women who love looking in people’s windows after dark, when the lights are on. Total house-addict: I’m surprised we haven’t moved 20 times).
Our time was nearly up, so we headed back up-river. Mmm. No Mr Boat-man. Oh, well, in his absence, J decided to “leap” ashore and then help me out. Picture the scene: J is your typical chunky rugby player build with broad shoulders, not too tall, nor very delicate. One should only leap from a boat if one IS delicate. The boat rocked, and rocked some more, and I was nearly tipped into the water. I clung on for dear life, but then J realized he hadn’t got the rope in his hand so I was drifting. Oh God. I’m going to fall off a weir or something. He managed to lie on the bank and stretch outwards, catching the rope with several guardian angels helping. I was shrieking, I’m ashamed to say. I hate hysterical women. Eventually we got the boat level with the mooring and I had calmed down to a whimper. Second minor accident (minor!! Humph) prevented.
Blonde moment descended. Wifey couldn’t wait to get out. Didn’t wait, actually. Wifey stood up and stretched right leg to bank. Bingo! Dry land. Uh, oh. Boat still only being held by rope. Boat drifts backwards. Now, I don’t know about you, but it is rather a long time ago since I was able to do the splits. Panic set in. Much shrieking. Remember the bit in the film Cliff Hanger, when the woman falls in the opening scenes, arms outstretched? Wifey clasping wildly at hubby’s hand. Oh bloody hell. Mr Boat-man turns up. Hasn’t that mad woman learnt to stay still until the boat is being held tightly? We haven’t been back. We might go a bit later in the summer – the boat-men tend to change a lot as they are students doing summer jobs. Surely he’s left by now? HUGE boating injury bruise still shows on left shin…………. Hope it fades by the summer.
Last August, J took me to the river for the day. All part of our “lifestyle change” when we moved to the country. Only, it isn’t very often that we “allow” ourselves the time off to just enjoy being here. Anyway, I’m shooting off at a tangent again. We don’t live far from the Wye and there’s a great pub along the bank at Symond’s Yat for refreshments after a hard afternoon kayaking. We decided to share a boat (I don’t “do” boats on my own) after much pathetic pleading from yours truly. We were rigged out (no pun intended) with all the protective gear (Michelin Man style) and proceeded down to the water’s edge. The sky was blue, not a cloud in the sky and the birds were singing. Perfect boating day. Mr Boat-man held the rope to control the boat while we got in.
I don’t know what it is, but whenever I get near water, I turn into the proverbial dumb blonde, even though I’m officially a brunette (with red bits!). At the best of times, I have zero co-ordination (I was sacked from the rounders team and am appalling at tennis). Any common sense I possess disappeared that very second. I started to put my leg out to step down into the boat, only to be hauled back by the scruff of my protective floatable jacket thing. “Nooooo!” yelled J. God, he DOES know how to show me up! Tactful he ain’t.
It’s like when you’re out in a group, (I’m usually driving on these occasions, don’t know why!), copious quantities of alcohol have flowed (I’m on sparkling water) and the men start getting, well, what can only be described as rugby playerish. (Admittedly, this mainly happens when the ex-rugby team gets together). You know, how they start to tell “those” jokes and laugh raucously. J is particularly good at telling jokes, and likes to “hold court”. On these occasions, there is usually a time when wifey decides that hubby is getting a bit close to the mark. Tactfully (as wifey does), I try to give him “the look”. The one that most wives reserve for moments when husband is about to make a huge gaff, and that mothers reserve for children who are rapidly running out of rope. Now, a woman would get the message if hubby looked at her like that, and realize he was (that bloomin’ spelling thing’s done it again. I want an “s” not a “z”!!) trying to save her embarrassment. A woman would then be a bit more self aware, and turn the notch down a bit. No, I’m afraid that J has a very thick skin. Not only does he not mind being embarrassed in the slightest, but he will then say (very loudly, because being drunk means you need to shout as your hearing goes): “What’s the matter, love? You’ve given me the look! Am I getting loud and embarrassing? Sorry, hun, I’ll be quiet now. (For clarity – hun is short for honey, NOT Attila. Just wanted to clear that one up.) Actually, I don’t feel great – can we go now?” Don’t you just HATE it when that happens?
So, having been hauled unceremoniously backwards, by tactless husband, I am left flushing with shame that I didn’t wait for Mr Boat-man to actually hold the boat tight into the side before I attempted to get in. First minor accident prevented.
Finally, we got under way and, once J stopped behaving like a 13 year old and wobbling the boat from side to side just to make me squeal, we had an extremely pleasant afternoon. We saw a kingfisher, swans and the usual riverside activities. We didn’t see the peregrines that day, though. I love looking at all the gorgeous houses with their own private moorings (confession: I’m one of those women who love looking in people’s windows after dark, when the lights are on. Total house-addict: I’m surprised we haven’t moved 20 times).
Our time was nearly up, so we headed back up-river. Mmm. No Mr Boat-man. Oh, well, in his absence, J decided to “leap” ashore and then help me out. Picture the scene: J is your typical chunky rugby player build with broad shoulders, not too tall, nor very delicate. One should only leap from a boat if one IS delicate. The boat rocked, and rocked some more, and I was nearly tipped into the water. I clung on for dear life, but then J realized he hadn’t got the rope in his hand so I was drifting. Oh God. I’m going to fall off a weir or something. He managed to lie on the bank and stretch outwards, catching the rope with several guardian angels helping. I was shrieking, I’m ashamed to say. I hate hysterical women. Eventually we got the boat level with the mooring and I had calmed down to a whimper. Second minor accident (minor!! Humph) prevented.
Blonde moment descended. Wifey couldn’t wait to get out. Didn’t wait, actually. Wifey stood up and stretched right leg to bank. Bingo! Dry land. Uh, oh. Boat still only being held by rope. Boat drifts backwards. Now, I don’t know about you, but it is rather a long time ago since I was able to do the splits. Panic set in. Much shrieking. Remember the bit in the film Cliff Hanger, when the woman falls in the opening scenes, arms outstretched? Wifey clasping wildly at hubby’s hand. Oh bloody hell. Mr Boat-man turns up. Hasn’t that mad woman learnt to stay still until the boat is being held tightly? We haven’t been back. We might go a bit later in the summer – the boat-men tend to change a lot as they are students doing summer jobs. Surely he’s left by now? HUGE boating injury bruise still shows on left shin…………. Hope it fades by the summer.
Vintage bedlinen - an eBay habit!
J: “How’s the blog going?”
Me: “Mmm, okay. Well, actually I’m quite enjoying it. Makes me realize that I have missed being at work to some extent. You know, having a gossip and giggle in the loos (so Big Boss Man doesn’t catch you). It’s therapeutic.”
J: “I think it’s great!”
Me: “Oh. Right!”
J: “ Yeah. (Big boyish grin and twinkle in eye) Better than you being on eBay – cheaper!” He ducks.
Hands up! I am yet another on these pages to confess to being an eBay addict. Buying a Victorian cottage has meant I can indulge my passion: vintage bedlinen. It started when I was little. Going to nan’s for the weekend, always meant sleeping in crisp, white, cotton sheets. The one’s with the crochet edge along the top sheet. Heavenly. I was the Princess in The Princess and the Pea. Of course, duvets weren’t really around then: sheets and blankets were the norm. Weighty in winter, with piles of blankets and eiderdowns; light and cool against the skin in the summer. It always smelt so “clean”, I can’t really describe it, but you must know what I mean: the smell of freshly laundered cotton, lightly scented of lavender and the outdoors. Now, I have my own collection (much to husband and bank manager’s chagrin) made up of pillowcases and top sheets with hand crochet lace edges, Durham quilts and (favourite of all) eiderdowns. I even enjoy ironing now! Yes, I REALLY do (not shirts, though. Hate those one’s with the double cuffs!). There’s something so satisfying about ironing those gleaming white linens and hanging them on the airer over the Rayburn, and then making up the bed is an art form. I could dive into it right now. Duvets? Pah! Easy care bedlinen? Pah, pah!
I’m not a slave to vintage style. But there is something about cottage living which brings out the “urge” in me. I did try minimalism – I really did, but it didn’t last long. I have kind of gone along the lines of “new country” (saw that phrase in a book), rather than chintz, brass and lace curtains. Last week, I spent, what felt like, the whole week on my hands and knees, painting the bedroom floorboards. We ripped up the carpet, excitedly looking for those wide, original floorboards and found……… well, a few wide, original floorboards (several with defunct woodworm holes), some patched areas where the floor was taken up to install central heating by someone who didn’t give a monkey’s about the way it would look after, and then there’s the new bits. Great! Replacing the yucky one’s with reclaimed timbers is going to cost (bye, bye latest object of desire: eiderdown with 3 days to go) and I don’t want carpet. Ping (light bulb comes on). I’ll paint them! Farrow & Ball floor paint (marvellous stuff) in Off-White No. 3. It took me 3 coats, mind you. Knees are scarred for life and my hands will take ages to recover. This health thingy I’ve got means I get stiffness in the hands if they are in one position too long. So, grasping a paintbrush all day, for a whole week, is not comfortable, to say the least. They do recover, slowly. It’s something I have to plan for: I get a bee in my bonnet to do something, plough full steam ahead, but know I’ll have to allow “recovery time” afterwards. C’est la vie and all that.
So, bedroom’s done now and (if I say so myself) looks totally gorgeous. The floor is finished off with a large seagrass rug (from… you guessed it! Good old eBay - £24.99. Bargain!!) I keep going upstairs to peek ‘round the door and look smug. We had our Victorian bed shot-blasted and re-powdercoated in F&B Lime White colour, and it’s the icing on the cake. Ooh, is it time for bed yet?
Me: “Mmm, okay. Well, actually I’m quite enjoying it. Makes me realize that I have missed being at work to some extent. You know, having a gossip and giggle in the loos (so Big Boss Man doesn’t catch you). It’s therapeutic.”
J: “I think it’s great!”
Me: “Oh. Right!”
J: “ Yeah. (Big boyish grin and twinkle in eye) Better than you being on eBay – cheaper!” He ducks.
Hands up! I am yet another on these pages to confess to being an eBay addict. Buying a Victorian cottage has meant I can indulge my passion: vintage bedlinen. It started when I was little. Going to nan’s for the weekend, always meant sleeping in crisp, white, cotton sheets. The one’s with the crochet edge along the top sheet. Heavenly. I was the Princess in The Princess and the Pea. Of course, duvets weren’t really around then: sheets and blankets were the norm. Weighty in winter, with piles of blankets and eiderdowns; light and cool against the skin in the summer. It always smelt so “clean”, I can’t really describe it, but you must know what I mean: the smell of freshly laundered cotton, lightly scented of lavender and the outdoors. Now, I have my own collection (much to husband and bank manager’s chagrin) made up of pillowcases and top sheets with hand crochet lace edges, Durham quilts and (favourite of all) eiderdowns. I even enjoy ironing now! Yes, I REALLY do (not shirts, though. Hate those one’s with the double cuffs!). There’s something so satisfying about ironing those gleaming white linens and hanging them on the airer over the Rayburn, and then making up the bed is an art form. I could dive into it right now. Duvets? Pah! Easy care bedlinen? Pah, pah!
I’m not a slave to vintage style. But there is something about cottage living which brings out the “urge” in me. I did try minimalism – I really did, but it didn’t last long. I have kind of gone along the lines of “new country” (saw that phrase in a book), rather than chintz, brass and lace curtains. Last week, I spent, what felt like, the whole week on my hands and knees, painting the bedroom floorboards. We ripped up the carpet, excitedly looking for those wide, original floorboards and found……… well, a few wide, original floorboards (several with defunct woodworm holes), some patched areas where the floor was taken up to install central heating by someone who didn’t give a monkey’s about the way it would look after, and then there’s the new bits. Great! Replacing the yucky one’s with reclaimed timbers is going to cost (bye, bye latest object of desire: eiderdown with 3 days to go) and I don’t want carpet. Ping (light bulb comes on). I’ll paint them! Farrow & Ball floor paint (marvellous stuff) in Off-White No. 3. It took me 3 coats, mind you. Knees are scarred for life and my hands will take ages to recover. This health thingy I’ve got means I get stiffness in the hands if they are in one position too long. So, grasping a paintbrush all day, for a whole week, is not comfortable, to say the least. They do recover, slowly. It’s something I have to plan for: I get a bee in my bonnet to do something, plough full steam ahead, but know I’ll have to allow “recovery time” afterwards. C’est la vie and all that.
So, bedroom’s done now and (if I say so myself) looks totally gorgeous. The floor is finished off with a large seagrass rug (from… you guessed it! Good old eBay - £24.99. Bargain!!) I keep going upstairs to peek ‘round the door and look smug. We had our Victorian bed shot-blasted and re-powdercoated in F&B Lime White colour, and it’s the icing on the cake. Ooh, is it time for bed yet?
How it all began
It all began with the Country Living website (sorry!!). That day was the day that I just couldn’t resist the urge any more. I had put the cursor over “keep your own here” so many times and, of course, wimped out. But, you know what? It was ChickenLicken (as was) who gave me the courage to do it! I read her blog, and thought “My God – this is SO like my life story”.
No, I ABSOLUTELY didn't want to enter the competition/promotion, whatever it ended up being. I wasn't being a hero; I just felt the need to share bloglife, without the pressure and with no end in sight.
Like ChickenLicken, my life changed due illness. I was 24, had gone to the doctors for my routine prescription of the pill and BANG, there it all happened. My wonderful GP leant towards me and took hold of my hands, examining them and turning them this way and that. He gently held my face and gazed carefully all over – scanning me almost. I won’t bore you with the details but, quick as a flash, I was referred to the (then) QE Hospital in Birmingham, near the university (I’m a Brummie). GP had a friend who was a rheumatologist there. There’d been a course on something called C.R.E.S.T. He felt I should go and see him. God! What the hell was C.R.E.S.T?
To cut a very long story short, I didn’t have C.R.E.S.T but I did have Scleroderma. What? I had this test and that test. It is part of the Lupus family and comes under the umbrella of auto-immune system disease and arthritis/rheumatism. There is no cure. Bloody hell. I’m going to die. But I’m only 24. No! This isn’t happening to me.
Within weeks, the disease had accelerated and I had to have a plasma exchange through a central line (a tube into the artery in the neck), followed swiftly by my first dose of chemotherapy. I got so ill. Not from the chemo – I tolerated that, surprisingly. I was only a size 8 before, but my weight plummeted and I looked like a skeleton. Husband #1 nursed me and learnt how to maintain my “lines” from the district nurse.
Three years later, having become “stabilized” (a favourite doctor term), life was beginning to get back to normal. My employer had been TOTALLY amazing and supportive, and things were getting good again. BANG. Another body blow. Husband#1 sat me on the sofa (or is that settee?) and calmly told me he wasn’t in love with me anymore. Oh! He did still love me like a sister, but just that everything that had happened meant he didn’t fancy me anymore. I understand, darling. Yes, of course. Who would fancy me now? I crumpled. But only for a bit. I’m made of strong stuff, you see. I was 27. We separated for 2 years, during which time I dated, half heartedly. Always hoping we’d get back together when he’d “got it out of his system”, whatever “it” was. “It” happened to be a blonde (I’m reddish/brown), 5 years younger than me – huge tits (am I allowed to say that word?). I know!!!! You don’t need to tell yell at me. I was a prat, waiting like that. Had to do it though. Had to be sure. Marriage was for life wasn’t it?
Went on girlie break, aged 29, ski-ing in Austria. What? With Scleroderma and Raynaud’s? Handsome rheumatologist said “Go, girl”, so “go” I did.
Sat in bar, drinking, as you do. Bloke with broad shoulders, thinning on top, with pools for eyes – “oh my God! He winked at me!!” Sat up ‘til 4am talking. Haven’t I known you forever? We parted (yes we snogged!) and he said “I’m going to marry you!” Bloody hell. And yes we did, in 1998.
I moved to Kent, to husband#2. We enjoyed life there for 3 years. The countryside around Westerham pulled and that was the dream………. But, we went to visit friends near Tenbury Wells and they took us to Ludlow, Hay-on-Wye and the surrounding Herefordshire countryside. We fell in love. Again. This was where we wanted to be. Husband#2 took charge and before we knew it, we were on the market and house-hunting with a vengeance. I had had to give up my job by now (the bad days didn’t outweigh the good days, but they were inconvenient for my employer). I had worked for a large firm of solicitors on Fleet Street, in the personnel department, or HR if you want to be PC. Don’t you just hate all these abbreviations? So, we were free to move wherever we wanted.
J (husband#2) is self-employed: an umbrella maker of the 4th generation of his family. Unusual? You bet! Only stipulation: we had to be able to get around the country to work our shows: Bakewell, Shrewsbury Flower Show, Tavistock Goose Fair, Neath Fair, The Royal Welsh Show, Lincoln Christmas Market…….. We ruled out Ludlow and Shropshire, eventually, because it was just that bit too far from SE London, where J’s elderly and infirm father still lived. We edged further south into Herefordshire and finally “found” our perfect place on the border with Gloucestershire, in the triangle from the Malvern Hills, Ledbury and Ross-on-Wye. Still farmed; not over-developed; fabulous scenery; great transport network and quiet. Totally perfect.
Our wish-list-house changed, as they so often do. 3 bedrooms became 2. Detached became attached. We did get the huge garden. We also got the fields surrounding our plot. We got the outbuilding and the beloved Rayburn. We also got “not in character” fireplaces, a plastic bathroom suite, draughty windows and a shower that all the tiles fell off on the first day. Did we care? No. We were, and are in heaven. Illness can ruin your life? Yes, it can, but, in my case, although I’m still battling this disease, my life couldn’t be more perfect.
No, I ABSOLUTELY didn't want to enter the competition/promotion, whatever it ended up being. I wasn't being a hero; I just felt the need to share bloglife, without the pressure and with no end in sight.
Like ChickenLicken, my life changed due illness. I was 24, had gone to the doctors for my routine prescription of the pill and BANG, there it all happened. My wonderful GP leant towards me and took hold of my hands, examining them and turning them this way and that. He gently held my face and gazed carefully all over – scanning me almost. I won’t bore you with the details but, quick as a flash, I was referred to the (then) QE Hospital in Birmingham, near the university (I’m a Brummie). GP had a friend who was a rheumatologist there. There’d been a course on something called C.R.E.S.T. He felt I should go and see him. God! What the hell was C.R.E.S.T?
To cut a very long story short, I didn’t have C.R.E.S.T but I did have Scleroderma. What? I had this test and that test. It is part of the Lupus family and comes under the umbrella of auto-immune system disease and arthritis/rheumatism. There is no cure. Bloody hell. I’m going to die. But I’m only 24. No! This isn’t happening to me.
Within weeks, the disease had accelerated and I had to have a plasma exchange through a central line (a tube into the artery in the neck), followed swiftly by my first dose of chemotherapy. I got so ill. Not from the chemo – I tolerated that, surprisingly. I was only a size 8 before, but my weight plummeted and I looked like a skeleton. Husband #1 nursed me and learnt how to maintain my “lines” from the district nurse.
Three years later, having become “stabilized” (a favourite doctor term), life was beginning to get back to normal. My employer had been TOTALLY amazing and supportive, and things were getting good again. BANG. Another body blow. Husband#1 sat me on the sofa (or is that settee?) and calmly told me he wasn’t in love with me anymore. Oh! He did still love me like a sister, but just that everything that had happened meant he didn’t fancy me anymore. I understand, darling. Yes, of course. Who would fancy me now? I crumpled. But only for a bit. I’m made of strong stuff, you see. I was 27. We separated for 2 years, during which time I dated, half heartedly. Always hoping we’d get back together when he’d “got it out of his system”, whatever “it” was. “It” happened to be a blonde (I’m reddish/brown), 5 years younger than me – huge tits (am I allowed to say that word?). I know!!!! You don’t need to tell yell at me. I was a prat, waiting like that. Had to do it though. Had to be sure. Marriage was for life wasn’t it?
Went on girlie break, aged 29, ski-ing in Austria. What? With Scleroderma and Raynaud’s? Handsome rheumatologist said “Go, girl”, so “go” I did.
Sat in bar, drinking, as you do. Bloke with broad shoulders, thinning on top, with pools for eyes – “oh my God! He winked at me!!” Sat up ‘til 4am talking. Haven’t I known you forever? We parted (yes we snogged!) and he said “I’m going to marry you!” Bloody hell. And yes we did, in 1998.
I moved to Kent, to husband#2. We enjoyed life there for 3 years. The countryside around Westerham pulled and that was the dream………. But, we went to visit friends near Tenbury Wells and they took us to Ludlow, Hay-on-Wye and the surrounding Herefordshire countryside. We fell in love. Again. This was where we wanted to be. Husband#2 took charge and before we knew it, we were on the market and house-hunting with a vengeance. I had had to give up my job by now (the bad days didn’t outweigh the good days, but they were inconvenient for my employer). I had worked for a large firm of solicitors on Fleet Street, in the personnel department, or HR if you want to be PC. Don’t you just hate all these abbreviations? So, we were free to move wherever we wanted.
J (husband#2) is self-employed: an umbrella maker of the 4th generation of his family. Unusual? You bet! Only stipulation: we had to be able to get around the country to work our shows: Bakewell, Shrewsbury Flower Show, Tavistock Goose Fair, Neath Fair, The Royal Welsh Show, Lincoln Christmas Market…….. We ruled out Ludlow and Shropshire, eventually, because it was just that bit too far from SE London, where J’s elderly and infirm father still lived. We edged further south into Herefordshire and finally “found” our perfect place on the border with Gloucestershire, in the triangle from the Malvern Hills, Ledbury and Ross-on-Wye. Still farmed; not over-developed; fabulous scenery; great transport network and quiet. Totally perfect.
Our wish-list-house changed, as they so often do. 3 bedrooms became 2. Detached became attached. We did get the huge garden. We also got the fields surrounding our plot. We got the outbuilding and the beloved Rayburn. We also got “not in character” fireplaces, a plastic bathroom suite, draughty windows and a shower that all the tiles fell off on the first day. Did we care? No. We were, and are in heaven. Illness can ruin your life? Yes, it can, but, in my case, although I’m still battling this disease, my life couldn’t be more perfect.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
