INTO 2019.
Our Roz.
On January
7th Roz went into St. Mary's Hospital, IW, for a double
mastectomy performed by a team from Southampton: two surgeons worked
simultaneously over some ninety minutes.
She recovered better than expected from the anaesthetic and, though sore, has felt well since and is now back in her own home under the care of a district nurse, of Mo, of kind friends, and of granddaughter Jess who is staying with her every night until full recovery.
On the same basis, grandson Ellis is staying here with us.
I am just eternally grateful for the dedicated and skilled professionals who carry out such superlative work.
Suffice to say I have, over the past year, discovered I am nothing like as tough as I thought myself to be; a finding that has not escaped my Leader, who knows my every mood backwards. Well, even English boys of the nineteen thirties can't always hide their emotions. Sad though that we feel so guilty about showing them.
As mentioned elsewhere within these posts, I was a NHS employee for over three decades (1957 – 89), believed in it implicitly, often found fault with it, too easily fell out with snotty seniors, and thought then, as I still do, that politicians and shit top administration will eventually do away with any semblance of the wonderful public funded service it was meant to be.
We'll finish up following America again. Devil take the hindmost.
In the meantime, keep thanking the gods for all the wonderful doctors, nurses and administrative staff we still have left in Britain.
No final date for Roz to move here yet, but it should be before the month is out. Radiators are in (thanks, Dean, you're a good lad), carpeting is down and everything is ready.
Whether you know her or not, wish her good luck, eh?
MUSIC.
To relax.
Relaxing
while working, with the
little music centre doing its stuff.
A long time favourite CD of mine, Lars Vogt playing Schumann's Piano Concerto, with the CBSO conducted by Simon (now Sir Simon) Rattle. Young Lars played it beautifully at Leeds in 1990 and I ordered and picked up the recording from Symphony Hall Gift Shop, Birmingham, on a day trip to a CBSO matinee (a sixtieth birthday present from Mo).
We can't manage trips of that sort anymore, but we enjoyed them while we could. I console myself with the thought that if I went now I'd probably have to listen, before the real music came on, to some modern cacophony that infuriated me.
Which reminds me: since Desert Island Discs on Radio 4 was taken over by Lauren Laverne (from the excellent Kirsty Young), people young enough to regard twentieth century music as ancient have become the fashionable castaways. Listening to a recent choice I sourly remarked to Mo: “If I was rowing towards a desert island and heard that one's music I'd turn right around and row away.”
(Yeah, I know. Miserable old sod.)
But, to be fair, 'that one' would probably turn right around and row away if he or she heard any of mine.
TELEVISION.
Hunters and hunted.
We
are being caught up by
police procedural in the crop of old coppers' memoirs currently in
evidence. My favourite to date has been Manhunt
in which Martin Clunes (brilliantly underacting) plays real life DCI
Colin Sutton of the Metropolitan Police, a man who plainly never
overacted throughout his entire career and as a consequence was,
without doubt, frequently dismissed by glib bullshitters of higher
rank.
DCI Sutton's painstaking pursuit of the serial killer Levi Bellfield was shown on ITV over three nights and - even to one who normally eschews both literary and screen 'true detective' depictions - was mesmerising stuff.
Can't say the same for Hunted or ex cop Peter Bleksley on Channel 4: my disenchantment with reality television has been diminished by neither.
For the fictional detective devotee two new series with the return of Father Brown (BBC1) played by Mark Williams, a watchable dose of dated hokum, and Grantchester (ITV) starring Robson Green and, apparently for the last time, James Norton: a feel good dose of sham 1950s for the oldies.
I watch both
with frequent smiles and an occasional groan. Love the premise, see
the flaws.
THAT'S IT FOR NOW.
Thanks for your Christmas cards, all who sent them, and apologies to those who may have somehow been missed off our list. It came and went so fast.
All the best again for
the New Year.
Mind how you go, and avoid picking up the phone to any number you don't recognize.
Our Roz.
She recovered better than expected from the anaesthetic and, though sore, has felt well since and is now back in her own home under the care of a district nurse, of Mo, of kind friends, and of granddaughter Jess who is staying with her every night until full recovery.
On the same basis, grandson Ellis is staying here with us.
I am just eternally grateful for the dedicated and skilled professionals who carry out such superlative work.
Suffice to say I have, over the past year, discovered I am nothing like as tough as I thought myself to be; a finding that has not escaped my Leader, who knows my every mood backwards. Well, even English boys of the nineteen thirties can't always hide their emotions. Sad though that we feel so guilty about showing them.
As mentioned elsewhere within these posts, I was a NHS employee for over three decades (1957 – 89), believed in it implicitly, often found fault with it, too easily fell out with snotty seniors, and thought then, as I still do, that politicians and shit top administration will eventually do away with any semblance of the wonderful public funded service it was meant to be.
We'll finish up following America again. Devil take the hindmost.
In the meantime, keep thanking the gods for all the wonderful doctors, nurses and administrative staff we still have left in Britain.
No final date for Roz to move here yet, but it should be before the month is out. Radiators are in (thanks, Dean, you're a good lad), carpeting is down and everything is ready.
Whether you know her or not, wish her good luck, eh?
MUSIC.
To relax.
A long time favourite CD of mine, Lars Vogt playing Schumann's Piano Concerto, with the CBSO conducted by Simon (now Sir Simon) Rattle. Young Lars played it beautifully at Leeds in 1990 and I ordered and picked up the recording from Symphony Hall Gift Shop, Birmingham, on a day trip to a CBSO matinee (a sixtieth birthday present from Mo).
We can't manage trips of that sort anymore, but we enjoyed them while we could. I console myself with the thought that if I went now I'd probably have to listen, before the real music came on, to some modern cacophony that infuriated me.
Which reminds me: since Desert Island Discs on Radio 4 was taken over by Lauren Laverne (from the excellent Kirsty Young), people young enough to regard twentieth century music as ancient have become the fashionable castaways. Listening to a recent choice I sourly remarked to Mo: “If I was rowing towards a desert island and heard that one's music I'd turn right around and row away.”
(Yeah, I know. Miserable old sod.)
But, to be fair, 'that one' would probably turn right around and row away if he or she heard any of mine.
TELEVISION.
Hunters and hunted.
DCI Sutton's painstaking pursuit of the serial killer Levi Bellfield was shown on ITV over three nights and - even to one who normally eschews both literary and screen 'true detective' depictions - was mesmerising stuff.
Can't say the same for Hunted or ex cop Peter Bleksley on Channel 4: my disenchantment with reality television has been diminished by neither.
For the fictional detective devotee two new series with the return of Father Brown (BBC1) played by Mark Williams, a watchable dose of dated hokum, and Grantchester (ITV) starring Robson Green and, apparently for the last time, James Norton: a feel good dose of sham 1950s for the oldies.
THAT'S IT FOR NOW.
Thanks for your Christmas cards, all who sent them, and apologies to those who may have somehow been missed off our list. It came and went so fast.
Mind how you go, and avoid picking up the phone to any number you don't recognize.
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