Knowing I’d be putting in a lot of hours behind the wheel today, I planned last night for a cooked breakfast this morning by taking some bacon and sausages out of the freezer to defrost in the fridge overnight. John was up with me, but he was happy with cereals, so I was just cooking for me. John likes to make a fuss about me and my sometimes forgetting to put things away after I use them. Truthfully, I usually do, but the difference between something being in the right place or not in this house can be a matter of a few centimetres. Everything here has its place, which is fair enough. He and I bounce off of one another in jest about this, and it’s sort of become a bit of a meme around the house. I also often lean into John’s tendency to mollycoddle me, often with a hint of over-the-top theatrics, as if to make fun of my seeming inability to perform basic tasks.
If I’m struggling to know what the procedure is for, say, doing the washing up after mealtimes, where to find the bread, where to put things away, etc., I’ll turn to him, perhaps with plates in my outstretched hands or whatever, and give a half grunt/half moan, as if to say ‘I don’t know what you want me to do with these, so can you please help, because I’m totally helpless without you?’ but in a non-verbal caveman communication style. That meme has only grown in strength over the past couple of weeks, ever more hilariously.
After breakfast, I made up some sandwiches. As I was doing so, a roll of foil landed by my side—John’s way of volunteering help for the chore. I duly wrapped my sandwiches, replaced the foil in the drawer where it lives, and took a seat at the table. Still pottering around the kitchen, perhaps retracing my steps to ensure everything was tidied away properly, John asked me what I had done with the foil. “Oh, I put that back into the drawer.” John immediately feigned some Oscar-nomination-quality theatrics about being stunned that I had managed—without prompting—to clean something up after myself. His little performance lasted quite a while. There were the raised hands to the head, depicting stunned surprise; the I-can’t-believe-it gasps; the convulsions of confused body movements, developing into a swooning fit and then fainting to the ground; and finally the stunned surprise of a quivering mass writhing on the floor, grunting in a sort of how-is-this-possible kind of way. We were both in tears throughout the whole show. Honestly, I’ve no idea where he gets these notions about me. I really am quite tidy…mostly.
The original plan for today was to drive to little Jacky’s house in Stevenage as a jumping-off point for the onward journey to visit my little brother, Richard, in the same rehabilitation centre where he has been since my last visit. I pinged Jacky my satnav’s ETA prediction, but she suggested I visit her over the weekend instead, due to her work commitments. That last-minute wrinkle meant I would drive directly to Richard’s. Thinking about that now, the me of the past might have stressed about that sudden change of plan. I’m still a little stunned at just how well I took this in my stride. Maybe I am healing after all.
By the time I settled comfortably behind the wheel, adjusted my satnav, set my Neil deGrasse Tyson StarTalk podcast running, allowed the A/C to cool the interior down a little, and organised my snacks on the passenger seat for easy access while driving, it took me several minutes before I shifted the car into gear and started reversing. I casually waved in the direction of the garden, thinking I might catch John and Lisa’s attention to wave a temporary goodbye, only to find both of them frantically waving their arms at me in a kind of ‘go—get out of here already!’ manner. There’s nothing like a warm, supportive, loving family…so I’m told. I pulled out of the drive giggling.
With John and Lisa safely out of sight, I was able to remove my hoodie from the front seat to reveal the secret stash of chocolate Minstrels and Salt ‘n’ Vinegar Pringles I had surreptitiously placed there just before I left. They were all the tastier for the subterfuge. Yum!
The drive to Richard would take 4-5 hours, but I needed to stretch my legs and eat my sandwiches at some point, so I was on the lookout for a convenient place to stop. Britain is littered with points of interest depicted by brown road signs with white lettering. One in particular piqued my attention just Northwest of Birmingham—RAF Museum Cosford. I initially dismissed it, thinking that a motorway service stop would be my default option. A last-minute ‘why not?’ caused me to make an on-the-spot decision to pull off the motorway to explore the museum.
Initially, I just pulled into the car park and walked into the main visitor centre, where there was an open hall of tables and chairs with a small food counter. I figured this would be as good a place as any to eat my sandwiches, and use the lavatory while I was here. There didn’t seem a lot more on offer here, other than a few displays depicting RAF aircraft and other snippets of historical information. As museums go, this didn’t look especially appealing after all.
After rejuvenating myself, I was going to walk straight back to the car again, but then I noticed some people entering an adjacent building. It was quite large, but irregularly shaped, with no straight walls or right angles. The car had registered 40ºC at one point today, and the heat outside was genuinely stifling. I had to make a snap decision. Do I continue to the car, or endure more heat getting to (and subsequently from) that building? I decided to have a quick peek. I’m glad I did. There were dozens of aircraft from across history all crammed together in that hangar. They were on different levels and utilising all the available space, with wings and fuselages interlocking at irregular angles. Suddenly, my camera was in overdrive, snapping from all angles. I wandered around the vast space, weaving between and beneath massive beasts—some of which were so enormous that it defies logic about how they could ever become airborne.
I wasn’t there for more than half an hour, but it was definitely worth the effort to stop—especially given there was no entrance fee. Ok, so I may have ‘not seen’ the £7.50 parking fee notice by the pay-and-display ticket machines, but I’ll wrestle with those morals another time.
After another hour or so on the road, I needed to stop for a drink. Wouldn’t you know it? The mini service station I stumbled upon just happened to have a Greggs inside. Well, what’s a chap to do?
I pulled in to Richard’s little bungalow in the rehabilitation centre by around 5:15 pm. There was no reply when I knocked, but the front door was unlocked. I went in, sheepishly announcing my presence. I was all the way in when the thought struck me that he might not be in this unit anymore. I had a momentary thought of being chased down the road by an angry woman screaming at the top of her voice about an intruder. In my version of this scenario, I was apprehended and roughed up by the Police before being sentenced to twenty years in the electric chair. Fortunately, I saw Richard in his bedroom. He peered at me from beneath a pillow over his face before recognising it was me.
Richard, after getting out of bed and into his wheelchair, was in good spirits, which I was glad to see. He was still every bit his foul-mouthed, brash, loud, cantankerous self. Richard is an acquired taste, but I love him all the same. For all the veneer and bravado, there’s still a loving brother beneath it all. We enjoyed catching up for a couple of hours. While I was there, I had a video call with Sandy and Joey. That gave Richard an opportunity not only to have a bit of quality time interacting with Joey, but also to expose my son to more swear words in the space of five minutes than he’s probably heard in the past fifteen years. In our house, I don’t permit profanity. After today, I clearly have some damage control to do.
I said goodbye to Richard with the promise to come and see him again at least once more before I return to Holland. His insistence on a final kiss goodbye, revealing a little more of the love he so desperately tries to hide, said it all.
My destination for the day was Dad’s house, and my old stomping grounds of South Ockendon. As is somewhat customary, and given it was time to eat anyway, I stopped at the ‘chippy’ to grab some dinner for me, Paul and Dad. While there, I got a reply to an earlier message I had sent to Jenny-Lee, one of the 80,000 relatives of mine from this part of the country. JL is the oldest of my many nieces and nephews on this side of the channel. As it happens, she and her large family are on holiday in North Devon right now. Ironically, that’s within striking distance of Cardiff, so I could conceivably have visited them on holiday the other day. After a quick call, we’ve agreed that I will spend the night at her house in Clacton sometime next week, after I return from Wales once again. I am really looking forward to that. It adds yet another relative to my growing list whom I will have seen on this trip.
At Dad’s, I spent several sessions across the evening sitting at his bedside, allowing him to recall stories from his past. He is well—perhaps ‘stable’ might be more accurate. He is frail, bony and bedbound—wholly dependent on others for just about everything. It’s sad, but I absorbed as much as he could tolerate while it was still possible. Paul made up the spare bedroom for me in the meantime. After Dad grew tired, I let him be and finished up this blog entry.
Paul tells me I am looking well. It could be the fresh, rejuvenating Welsh air, or it could be the boost in the arm I am getting from visiting family. Whatever it is, I’m sure it’s all doing me the world of good.