Post 270. IT'S ANOTHER WORLD.

BUT SOME THINGS DO STAY GOOD.

Entertainment.
Last Friday evening we joined an empathetic audience (mostly family members of the cast) to watch an enthusiastic gathering of drama group pupils at Medina College perform a young people's version of Les Miserables which was called Do You Hear The People Sing.
Grandson Ellis, twelve years old and showing early promise of a good bass-baritone voice, had asked whether he could have one of the few leftover tickets for the show. Cast members were allocated two tickets each (no charge - contributions welcomed at the end of the show) and his two had been reserved for his mother and for his grandmother. He was asked if he was sure the person the third ticket was for would use it and had apparently replied: 
"Oh yes, he has all the music."
So I received an unexpected invitation which led to a most enjoyable evening back at school.
Mo and I arrived ahead of Roz, who is a LSA and knows the building well, so just finding the drama studio took the pair of us back to my very first blog post, which went as follows:
It's a bit like when the kids were at school and...you were invited to go one evening to meet the teacher. I always finished up feeling that our kids had to start next term with a few Brownie points if we had somehow found the classroom, found the teacher and, wonder of wonders, managed to arrive on time.
Afterwards it was more a case of hoping the teacher would be sympathetic towards our kids, considering the obvious disadvantage they had being raised by such parents.
In the event, we became 'such grandparents,' ambling around the nearby theatre complex before discovering that the drama studio was actually in the main school building.
Fortunately we had set out early, so did reach our destination in Brownie points time.
It was a small studio for a large cast playing to a capacity audience on a warm night.
But the young people gave their all - don't they always? - and, bless 'em, they brought it off.
By the time the show ended the stifling heat no longer mattered. The cast exited to cheers and clammy hands clapping squishy appreciation.
These young people had been given five days to learn, rehearse, and stage a tastefully modified version of a show packed with music known and loved all over the world. The teachers who set it up and gave their time and skill to make it work: Hannah Brear (who wrote it), Steph Shorrock, Rich Wiseman, and the 'orchestra' that was Beth Peckham on the hidden piano, had undertaken an almost impossible task. All the tutoring and rehearsal in the world cannot disguise the reality of breaking voices, and the majority of the young men in the cast were of that age.
It didn't matter.
The young women stoically accepted any sudden change of key introduced by their male partner in a duet. It was clearly par for the course.
So in the end a few cues may have been missed, a few lines may have been lost or inadvertently repeated, a few top notes may have cracked and Javert may not have jumped off a bridge. So what.
This was a school show, not a Cameron Mackintosh production. Given the confines in which it was staged (and 5 days!) it was a triumph. A very, very brave triumph.
As we were leaving, I spoke to teaching staff about the confines in which it was staged and remarked that it should have been shown in 'the school theatre.' 
"Yes," I was told, "but we couldn't afford that." Couldn't afford?
How come?
Are we not talking school theatre here?
Well, no, the theatre is part of Medina Leisure Centre, not the school; if the school wants to put on a show it has to hire the theatre, just like anybody else.  I was shocked.
Even in the constantly changing - wickedly underpaid - world of education (blame governments, councils, Ofsted et al), this seemed to me to be a giant step backwards.
Mo and I had been living over here for quite a while when the former Medina High School was built. It was a grand concept set in a pleasant area on the outskirts of Newport and with it came a theatre and swimming pools.
Our son and two daughters were pupils there, as was our granddaughter and, now, our grandson.
All three of our children appeared in shows at the theatre - good shows put together by Medina school drama teachers - and there was never, ever, talk of any payment by the school to put them on.
So how and when did all this payment for use (presumably to the council) start? When exactly did the 'school theatre' become what I can only surmise is now just another council (or, worse still, private) money tree?
I would write and ask, but I don't think knowing the answer would give me that much satisfaction.
Those kids did try hard though. We loved it.
Some things do stay good.

Thanks again to all involved.

Post 269. FILLED WITH DESPAIR AND ANGER.

WHAT PRICE AUSTERITY?

A nationwide investigation.
It has already been discovered that in cities all around the country (among them Portsmouth (above), the city where Mo and I were born) tower blocks have been cheaply and often illegally clad in the type of panel that disastrously accelerated the Grenfell Tower conflagration. Apparently this has been going on for years.
The news has to fill anyone but the most crooked businessman - or uncaring autocrat - with despair and anger.
Many questions will be asked and, were I charged with an investigation, I would certainly put the following three queries to all the councils involved:
(1) Were the inspectors who failed to immediately recognise this as a danger unqualified or incompetent?
(2) How many jobsworths actually recognised the danger, but wouldn't - or didn't dare - speak up? 
And finally, the one to which I might even receive a straight answer:
(3) Did funding cutbacks imposed by Westminster cause your council to relax, shelve or abandon the inspection of new high-rise builds in your area?
I do just wish councils and governments would sometimes disprove my increasingly cynical opinion that they're there for their own good, not for ours. If they stopped playing politics and gave their all to whatever concern they claim to serve, it would be a start. It would be unbelievable, too.
Those who do try locally - mostly decent Independents - are shuttled to the sidelines or, like the worthwhile ex-councillor Jonathan Bacon on the Isle of Wight, voted out by party plonkers at the first opportunity.
Incidentally, the new blue ribbon voted in as MP over here, sought election on the avowal that he was 'standing with Teresa May.'
For how long, I wonder, might that be?
MUSIC.

Non PC listening?
As I write I am listening to a tape recording made at Abbey Road, London in 1962, the year my Leader and I were married.
It is by one of my favourite pianists of all time, John Ogden (above), and he is playing Tchaikovsky's Piano Concerto No.1 with the Philharmonia Orchestra conducted by Sir John Barbirolli.
Both pianist and conductor were British, white and male.
That may define me, in the eyes of the browsing PC feminist, as 'a racist and misogynist.' 
Y'know, I'm far too old to care.
CALL THIS ONE WHAT YOU LIKE.
He is still a bloody head case.
Doesn't matter how mentally stable, or otherwise, he may be proven to be, it appears that the 47 year old father of four (poor little buggers), who ploughed a hired van into innocent Muslims coming from worship at Finsbury Park (one victim dead, ten injured), was a terrorist. The police said so right away, so it's official.
What's in a name?
Call him what you like. A terrorist by whatever name is still a bloody head case.
Imam Mohammed Mahmoud, clearly a good man and true Muslim, prevented furious captors from doing serious damage to him before the police arrived at the scene.
The hate-crazed attacker should be given the longest possible prison sentence. 
Mr. Mahmoud should be given an award.
That's my lot for this month.

 

 

Post 268. LOTS OF READING.

TOO LITTLE WRITING.

 Still struggling.
Unless you are one of those gifted chaps who churns out words with infuriating ease (and actually knows the derivation of every one of them), the thing about writing, or even rewriting, a book is that, from the outset, you have to be irrevocably obsessive.
That means you don't stop to make the tea, or help fold the duvet for ironing, or answer the door bell, or put the dustbins out/get the post in, or traipse out to buy a daily paper, or heed telephone calls from anybody (International what?), or spend hours tolerating tiresome twats on tele, or give a toss what needs to be done in the garden.
No! No!No!
It means you do commit yourself to eyes-down, key-tapping, sod-everybody, self-obsessed, prescribed-number-of-words-a-day, complete and utter lunacy.
When you've spent years giving way to the former, the latter comes extremely hard.
I am still struggling with the rewriting of The Badgers of Deep Wood (working title of a book for children aged nine to ninety nine), wrestling constantly with the opening of that too-long-imagined thriller and concurrently trying to turn out regular blog posts.
It's a self-inflicted struggle and, at my age, I should know better.
My rate of knots has diminished considerably over the years and I am currently writing as much as I can - which is far too little - in what time (and I do sometimes ponder) I may now have left.
And that's enough of the morbid stuff, thank you.
READING

The very readable.
Bearing in mind the rate of knots comment, there has been quite a lot of reading recently: this has come about because daughter Roz kindly handed me three more of her Terry Pratchett books to read and, the late Sir Tel being as readable as any writer has ever been or ever will be, I set about the task right away.
In quick succession I saw off The Truth (a wonderful Discworld evocation of a Fleet Street starting up in Ankh-Morpork) and The Amazing Maurice - and his Educated Rodents (which is clearly a book for children aged nine to ninety nine, so I loved it).

 At the moment I am about fifty pages into Thief of Time, about which more when I have ticked to the end of it.
To add to my marathon, I re-read Graham Hurley's The Perfect Soldier.

A story fraught with landmines. Went to it for a reference and finished up reading right through it again; gripped by the wicked, beautifully written truth of it.
To the question I posed in Post 267 (What are the Americans, the British and the French doing in the Middle East?) this book provides the awful answer.
Encouraging those who profiteer off misery, that's what.
No point in seeking to stop it. It has gone way beyond that.
The Devil has the reins.
LONDON AGAIN.

Another calamity in the capital.
Apparently complaints had been lodged, concerns expressed, and warnings given for years, about the disaster waiting to happen at Grenfell Tower.
The sympathy of the entire nation goes out to all hurt by it.
It could and should have been prevented.
Now the Prime Minister says lessons will be learnt.
No they bloody won't. Not all the time we kowtow to corner-cutting councils they won't.
All for now.

Post 267. A QUICK RETURN.

THE GOOD.

Well done, Ariana.
In common, I'm sure, with many another Brit of mature years, I had never heard of Ariana Grande (above) before a bomb-happy nutcase blew himself and twenty two of her fans to death at Manchester Arena on the 22 May, 2017.
She could have taken off right then and never returned. Nobody but the right wing press would have blamed her for that.
But, bless her, the girl came good. She took a quick breather, returned to visit many of her injured fans and those in grief at the loss of loved ones, and finally put two fingers up to terrorism with her brave One Love Manchester concert (held at Old Trafford on 4 June), which so far has raised over £2 million for the families of the Arena victims.

 Well done, Ariana.
Those of us who had never heard of you will never forget you now.
And the buddies who appeared with you at Old Trafford weren't a bad bunch either.
THE BAD.

More maniacal mayhem.
Now at London Bridge and Borough Market.
This time three of the lethal bastards drove a stolen van, from side to side across London Bridge, deliberately mowing down pedestrians.
Armed with knives the three then left the van and, killing as they went, made their way into Borough Market to savagely attack everybody they met.
Eventually, and with commendable speed, armed police shot them dead.
On their way they had murdered eight innocent citizens, three from France, two from Australia, a Briton, a Canadian and a Spaniard.
There was no provocation for any of it.
It was just further proof that the lunatics are hellbent on taking over the asylum.
This three have now been named. I wouldn't give them that much publicity.
They were worthless shits.
THE UGLY.

Why constantly meddle?
I know I have asked before, but in face of what could, from all the obvious signs, finish up becoming the third world war, can anybody tell me why, other than selling arms and procuring cheap oil, America, France and Britain are still meddling (frequently with bombs) in the affairs of countries in the Middle East?
My plaintive query may be simply the disquiet of an ordinary old Brit who lived through the last world conflict and, for his kith and kin's sake, does not want it all again, but I think it is a pertinent one. Think on. It's an ugly business.
AND THE FUNNY.
So Mrs. May had her snap election and it backfired on her.
Good.
Trouble is, hard on its heels could come yet another election when the handling of a hung parliament becomes too much.

 Sorry, Brenda.

Post 266. WHERE TO START?

AS A SIMPLE SCRIBBLER.
Manchester Arena.

Have to start there, don't you.
Another lunatic attack on innocent people (this time mostly young pop fans) who had been watching a concert given by the singer Ariana Grande.
As a simple blog scribbler there's not much I can add to that already written and said by experienced folk in the media and by the kith and kin of those so tragically involved. It was a savage, stupid, senseless act (for whatever twisted reason it was carried out) and it will accomplish nothing.
The sympathy of every right-minded person, religious or not, is with the victims and those closest to them.
Latest news is that Ariana Grande (together with a strong supporting team) will be back at the Arena in a fortnight's time. It is one of those situations where she can be faulted if she returns very quickly and faulted if she doesn't.
I think good on her and those supporting her.     
HOME. 
Loss of another old friend.
Another of our cancer suffering friends died early this month.
His name was John Robins and he was an islander to the core. Born on Guernsey, he moved to England as a teenager; was, by all accounts, a fine footballer (and master of the two-footed tackle); joined the police force in Southampton; moved on to spend four years as a policeman in New Zealand; returned to this country; rejoined the police and, until his retirement, was the Special Branch officer here on the Isle of Wight.
He then became a leading figure in the running of CCTV on the island.
John, a staunch family man, never stopped organising and was never still. The monthly lunch club (consisting of retired police colleagues and allied friends) to which he introduced me over twenty years ago, was his club.
His circle of friends was vast and the gathering at his funeral last week exceeded any we had ever seen.
Maureen and I stood, in the overspill outside the crematorium, throughout a fascinating service which included tributes by his brother and by two former senior police officers. It was a lovely sunny day and it was a privilege to be there.
RIP John Robins. Good copper. Good friend.
BLOG POST 265
Re: Peter White.

The mention of broadcaster Peter White (above) in my blog post earlier this month elicited a lovely response from another old friend, Ian Dillow.
In an email Ian wrote that he was not sure if Peter White could sing but he could do pretty much everything else.
It seems that 'about a hundred years ago,' in order to earn some extra crusts, Ian did weekend shifts as a news reporter and presenter at Radio Solent.
Back then you had to "drive" your own studio so presenters 'had to learn (or try to) how to operate the myriad switches and buttons' glaring at them from the desk. In Ian's early days he was completely overawed by all this.
When, eventually, he shared his problems with Peter White, that gentleman said maybe he could help.
He then took Ian back into the studio and slowly and calmly introduced him to all the lights and buzzers. It was a virtuoso performance. Peter White is blind: has been from birth. He was also the BBC's disability correspondent and regularly took himself off to places like Washington DC without an apparent care in the world.
"An amazing guy," Ian wrote, "and a really nice one too...I wonder why he is so absent from our screens these days."
Well, I have heard him sometimes on Radio 4, Ian, and I can only put down his absence from our television screens to the notion that his niceness might not fit in with the modern definition of good tele.
Think about it.




 

Post 265. THIS IS ROBERT WHITE.

TELEVISION.

The Good Old Days.

American Irish tenor Robert White (above) was one of the many talented performers who graced the stage of Leeds City Varieties during the thirty years (1953 - 83) that The Good Old Days, produced by Barney Colehan, was televised.

Recent repeat showings - currently from the seventies - of the show, will have reminded those who cared to revisit them that popular entertainment will never die.

I particularly mention Mr. White because, not only was he then (and is still now) a very fine tenor, in our house he possessed a dual persona.

How come?

Well, in our house, whenever I sat at my computer with the music centre gently relaying Den's musical choices of the day, if those choices happened to include the voice of Peter Dawson, my Leader, as she passed by en route to wherever, would pause in the doorway to say with a smile: "Ah, Robert White."

So that's how come.

In our house, Peter Dawson (Australian bass-baritone and songwriter born in Adelaide in 1882) regularly metamorphosed into Robert White (American tenor and voice teacher born in the Bronx in 1936).

Don't ask me how it happened.

I have absolutely no idea.

He just did.

For some years I shook my head and said: "No, love, it's Peter Dawson, but you're close."

Then I gave up.

(Well at least she didn't confuse Peter Dawson (in the wing collar) with Peter White, a visually impaired English radio broadcaster and thoroughly nice bloke, who probably couldn't sing for toffee.)

Time went by and elderly memories became slightly foggy (well, mine did, anyway).

Then, a few weeks ago, BBC Four re-ran a Good Old Days episode first broadcast on New Year's Eve 1978/9 and there, along with Roy Castle, Dolores Gray and Eira Heath, was the handsome, forty-two-year-old, note-perfect tenor Robert White who, for his set, sang Sylvia and Danny Boy and, to round off the show, When You Come To The End Of A Perfect Day.

I duly recorded it and at breakfast the following day played it back for Maureen.

"Remember Peter Dawson?"I said. "Well, my love, this is Robert White."

"What a nice surprise and what a lovely voice," she said. "Is he still alive?"

"Dunno," I said. "Look him up on your ipad."

She did.

"Says he was born on the 27th October 1936. That makes him exactly six years and a month younger than you."

"No whatsit watson," I said. "I'll have a look on my computer later on."

I did.

Not only is he still going strong at eighty years old but, according to his Wiki entry, he still teaches at Juilliard in New York, one of the most prestigious music schools in the world.

So can he still sing?

If you would like to know, Google: Bird Songs At Eventide - Robert White - YouTube and hear him, two days after his seventy ninth birthday, enchant a gathering of well-wishers with an impeccable rendering of Eric Coates's composition.

 And that's it for now.

Footnote:

We had our local elections.

The results were not surprising.

More, perhaps, at the end of the month.

 

   

 

Post 264. YEP, MORE POLITICS.

FOR YOU PERHAPS.
Not for me.

Following that Bristol lady Brenda's much publicised disgust at Teresa May's snap election decision, the respected (by me, anyway) i columnist Simon Kelner hastened to decry Brenda's attitude on the grounds that we should all welcome every opportunity to vote, however repetitious or inconvenient we may feel it to be, because many people fought and died to give us our voting rights.
Whilst I instinctively side with Mr. Kelner on just about everything, I really do not think that people inveigled into two world wars saw the voting rights of future generations as their prime reason for going to war, let alone for enduring the all too oft ineptitude of their top brass. Neither do I believe that most wartime conscripts sent to the front gave a toss about what sent them there; most of them went because they had no choice and because they wanted to get the whole mess over with as quickly as possible, to get back home and to never talk about it again.
No. When it comes to it, I'm with the lady from Bristol on this one.
Another election? Not for me, thanks.
Oh, I'll go to the polling booth. But I know, no matter how much of a wet plank it may be (viz the one who has just resigned) or whatever guise it adopts, a Tory will be elected over here.
And if I wasn't so bloody-minded I'd stay at home.
C'est la vie.
TELEVISION.
Our recent choices.

 Broadchurch (ITV): we watched series 3 and were reminded yet again that Britain is home to some of the finest acting talent in the world.
The Wright Stuff (Channel 5) frontman Matthew Wright apparently does not agree with that opinion. Well, not when it comes to Broadchurch anyway. In advance of looking in on the last series he dismissed it (to television critic Kevin O'Sullivan) as "more over-acting."
Hell, what does he know?
The Boss (BBC 1) is a new daytime quiz show hosted by Glaswegian actress, writer and comedian, Susan Calman. She is good. The format is tiresome.
World Snooker (BBC 2) We have been mesmermized again by those skilful enough to grace the tables at The Crucible, Sheffield, this year. My Leader has taken to calling me away from my computer when one or another of the participants is making an interesting break. Y'don't get more hooked than that. Not in this house y'don't.
I would look in more, but I get fed up with the verbal diarrhoea that engulfs every shot: John Virgo is particularly guilty. I do wish he'd shut up. Don't tell me it's for the visually impaired. He just likes the sound of his own voice.
Ah well. 

 

Post 263. AND ANOTHER THING

ABOUT GROWING OLD.
You sleep a lot.

When you grow old (unless you are a nocturnal nonagenarian or an indefatigable insomniac), you are inclined to sleep a lot.
The cat Shadow and I can sleep for England. It is our chosen sport. He is kipping right now in one of his favourite spots, my old armchair. Background piano music courtesy of John Ogden and Daniel Adni - a very elderly tape - and me here at the computer trying to look as though I am not at all likely to fall asleep at any second. It's our sort of afternoon. Before I do doze off, though, I must relay my thanks to all of you who expressed concern and sympathy at Shadow's recent brush with the more dangerous side of cat life. I am glad to report he is making excellent progress.
ABOUT THE DVLA.
You instinctively know.

When you grow old you instinctively know there will be no fucking justice. My Leader insisted we make an approach to the money grabbing political pawns in Swansea to seek a possible reversal of the eighty quid fine imposed on us for our wholly unintentional failure to pay the thirty quid or so vehicle license on our little car last year (Post 259).
I was agin any further dealings with them.
“They've been paid more than three times our annual fee now,” I said, “and no matter how good you think your argument is, they won't give a penny back. Trust me.”
But, bless her, she is still soft hearted enough to believe there might be kindly reason out there, so she drafted a letter and I signed it and off it went and in due course we had a missive from a minion described as an Enforcement Officer saying that s/he had reviewed the information provided and had “found nothing to support withdrawal of the Late Licensing Penalty.”
(In other words: Up Yours!)
All the letter actually amounted to was a lame set of reasons why the DVLA can never be wrong. e.g. “Your driver's license details are separate to those of your vehicle, therefore you are required to notify us separately using your V5C.” (Your what?).
Well, they do proudly boast that they collect around £6 billion a year in Vehicle Excise Duty (VED). And now that the Brexiteers are in power they are going to be collecting even more (at least £130/£140 per car per year w.e.f. April Fools' Day 2017 – ain't that appropriate?).
Furthermore, their offices are in Swansea (which cannot help but remind an old geezer like me of the nursery rhyme Taffy was a Welshman).
So the Enforcement Officer's decision (on behalf of the Secretary of State for Transport) “concludes the dispute process and we will not consider any further information from you about the case.”
We-e-ll, I never thought they would, so it's water under the bridge.
The future for the motorist in this country was settled years ago with the MP (probably a transport minister) who snootily proclaimed: “The motorist is a buoyant source of revenue.”
Motorists in this deferential little country have been finding out just how bloody buoyant ever since and, no doubt, will continue so to do ad infinitum.

                       (see W.Heath Robinson)
Happy driving, buddies.

Post 262. WHAT NEXT?

AN ARMED POLICE FORCE?

A British born middle-aged nut job goes berserk with a hired car on Westminster Bridge and the cry for cowboy cops reaches another crescendo.
The reaction is understandable. Not only did this loser kill and maim innocent people going about their peaceful business, he then murdered an unarmed Palace of Westminster police officer (who should, surely, have been armed?) before another officer (who came from lord knows where, armed but just too late) rightly shot him dead.
So what next?
Must we finally give way to the gun totin' example set by America and most of the rest of the world? Will all British bobbies soon be wearing side arms?
I fear so and I hope not.
Throughout my life I have come to know (and generally like) quite a lot of policemen. The majority of them, whatever their rank or disposition, have been opposed to the notion of an armed police force in Britain. They believe that weapon carrying lawmen attract weapon carrying villains. I respect that opinion.
Doesn't stop me wishing, whenever some murderous moron attacks them, that they all wore body protection and were armed with more than a truncheon. I fear, though, that many British policemen given guns would be more of a danger to themselves, their colleagues and the public, than to any armed lawbreaker.
Perhaps the answer is to equip them with Tasers.
I am also much inclined to the belief that only the terrorist bedecked in explosives is likely to be a genuine 'soldier of Isis' (or whatever the fundamentalist freaks are currently calling themselves). The rest are just pathetic publicity seekers who see an act of insane violence as their sole guarantee of gaining the public recognition they have no hope of obtaining in any other way.
Sick world, ain't it?
TELEVISION.

Colin Dexter, the crime writer whose thirteen Morse books (from which came the television series, succeeded by the equally popular Lewis and then Endeavour follow ups) has died aged 86.
The entire Morse set was gifted to me some years ago by the younger of our two daughters, Roz, and I am still assiduously ploughing through them.
Mr. Dexter was, of course, that little bloke whose Hitchcockian appearances in his televised Morse and Lewis stories were waggish fun. His death came as a small reminder to me that none of us goes on forever. He was two days my junior.
This week:

Yasmin Alibhai Brown has been one of the panellists on The Wright Stuff and I have watched with a smile as she has entered into brief exchanges with fellow panellist Richard Fairbrass and guests such as Alistair Campbell.
Though we have never met, I like Yasmin and only occasionally disagree with her, so it was good to hear that she has been voted Newspaper Columnist of the Year at this year's National Press Awards.
I would say "Good on you, girl!" but that would be extremely pesumptuous, probably sexist, and could get me into big trouble with the PC brigade.
Sod it. I'll say it anyway. "Good on you, girl!"
Another series of Call the Midwife came and went. We watched every episode, as we always do, close to tears at the tear-jerker situations (don't talk to us about the good old days, we lived them) and filled to the brim with admiration at the sheer talent of the actors involved. I hope they'll all be back before too long.
I guess everybody has a favourite. Mine is Judy Parfitt who, if my memory serves me rightly, played some deliciously nasty characters in her youth, and now plays Sister Monica Joan, a dementia sufferer with a wonderful heart, a sweet tooth and a wicked sense of humour. She has me misty-eyed as soon as she appears. My Leader smiles and says: "She's done it again, hasn't she." Yep, she has.

She does it every time.

       

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Post 261. THIS IS SHADOW.

THE FAMILY CAT.

The cat Shadow had a good day last Friday: well, right up until his last trip out to beat the bounds he did. He went out quite late in the evening, was gone longer than usual and when he returned was bleeding badly from his right front paw. Maureen bathed the paw in a mild saline solution and we settled him for the night.
By morning the paw had swollen considerably and the state of his left front leg was also questionable. We booked to have him seen at the local veterinary practice, Medina Veterinary Group, which (praise be) is open on Saturday mornings.
There followed the short journey in the car with him (wrapped in a towel - he'd have fought to escape a box) in my arms: the long, long wait (he could not have been more patient) to see the vet: the examination (he only swore once): the X-rays (he has a broken and partially crushed bone in his right leg and a dislocated bone in the left one): the summing up: the paying up (i.e. the timely reminder that a veterinary practice is not a department of the NHS) and the trip back home.
Vet. Mr. Tommy Blaehr was precise and practical. It looked as though Shadow had been run over by a vehicle of some kind: he was in very good nick for his age (22/23ish) but would be better not subjected to an operation: he had now been given a two week antibiotic injection (his last trip to the vet was 11 years ago) and a dose of liquid pain killer. We (that will be nurse Mo) would need to administer the pain killer for the next few days.
Cats, counselled the vet, have a propensity for self-healing. Given a satisfactory first week (eating, drinking, resting) Shadow could be close to recovery between four and six weeks time.
Mr. Blaehr would like to check him over during the first week and if all was well that would be that.
THE MIRACLE CAT.
Check-up day. We took him back for his check-up today - Wednesday - and (wrapped in a towel in my arms) he patiently waited in the car, his head moving like a Wimbledon spectator as the rush hour traffic filed past, until the vet was free to see him.
He then paraded across the surgery floor placing all four paws firmly down in proud cat marching order. (I knew he could do it. He jumped up onto my desk this morning.)
Mr. Blaehr called in a colleague to see the miracle cat walking and said: "You have to see this. Two front legs broken last Friday night. Now look at him."
Elated, we came home with him in his towel and a final word of veterinarian advice: "Try not letting him jump off any walls for a while."
Try to stop him, I thought.

 

He said nothing, but I reckon he thought a lot.