Recovery

Today is the first time in 11 days I wore trousers that didn’t have an elastic waistband. That, my friends, is a sign of recovery.

The other obvious signs are that I can walk at what most people call a normal stride (though I’d still say I was going at a snail’s pace), I can sleep on one side and not just on my back, and I am working a full day, albeit from the comfort, usually, of my bedroom.

I actually had to go back to my older posts to see what I may have written about my impending operation and recalled B is for Bureaucracy  mentioning the NHS postponement back in October. After a bit of telephone prodding and a reassessment of my condition, a letter flooded in with a revised date in February, and so it happened: I am the proud owner of a piece of mesh in my lower abdomen that my body has not rejected as a foreign object and a currently ghastly three-inch wound in a rather sensitive area. ‘Nuf said.

What I found out in the last 11 days about myself is not very surprising: I am a good patient when it comes to following orders; I am a bad patient when it comes to finding things to do to pass the time while following orders. I have taken several lessons in French on the Duolingo site (though I still cannot seem to master the possessives) and have watched a bit of the Olympics. I read part of my current book, Tulipomania (about how the tulip made and ruined fortunes), and probably read more news on line. I played one hand of solitaire before I realised I have become bored with solitaire. I am not a computer games kind of gal, so I didn’t even try one of those. I did catch up with some personal email so that my Inbox is a bit more manageable. (Oddly enough my work inbox is usually at 0 items by the end of the day, but my Google mail hovers at around 50 items at a time.)

And I’ve been occasionally challenged with the ebb and flow of workmen arriving at different times to do different tasks in different rooms, making it not possible to have a cup of tea or find something in the kitchen for lunch. I’ll admit it’s been mildly challenging, but it meant that I took a short “gentle walk” to the local supermarket for something for lunch rather than trying to enter the fray.

There was one day recently that had me just laughing out loud with the controlled chaos—the noise alone would have driven most people to flee! Merv and Leon the painters were busy sanding away while Leon was singing to his iPod and Merv, a lovely Jamaican, was singing mostly to himself in a wonderful Jamaican lilt. Ben and Reza were sawing kitchen tiles while listening to a rock station blasting 80s tunes. Ben tends to keep his head down; Reza occasionally sings a line aloud, just randomly, and then he laughs. With all this happening our electrician Sparky returned to finally push the recessed lighting into the spaces he created a few weeks ago where he left them hanging, seemingly to allow Merv to paint the ceiling. Sparky made an attempt at the first light, with bits of crumbly stuff and dust falling on our new unprotected wooden floor (to which Reza quickly responded and covered), ruined Merv’s paint work and just shrugged and carried on, making the same mess on another bit of the ceiling (which Merv tells me today may be difficult to just patch without re-painting the entire ceiling over).

Nevermind; it comes with the territory if you choose to inhabit a house in the throes of metamorphosis rather than sun in Spain.

There were a lot of things I wanted to do—my annual cull of the clothes that I haven’t worn in a year which then go to the charity shop, the dump, or a place that helps women prepare for interviews called SmartWorks where I occasionally volunteer, depending on the quality or worn-ness of the garment. Then I realised it was a lot of reaching, bending, and using my “core” which I have been told is a no-no, so that will wait.

I also wanted to move some of the remaining kitchen items down from their temporary, dusty abode in the second floor bedroom now that the kitchen is (gasp!) just about finished, but that would have meant overexerting myself, so that will wait, too.

But not much longer—the swelling is down considerably, I am sleeping better, and I feel more my normal self, so I will gradually add back a few physical tasks--starting with commuting to the office on Monday. I hope that by the end of next week when I know the painters will be done and it’s possible the plumber will be tidying up, we will have our house almost back . . . I say almost because there are small things around that need care—the newly-built cupboard needs doors so that my expensive wine glasses don’t tumble out when we whoosh by, but the builders needed to move on to another job while waiting on parts. There are a few wires here and there that need a trim and a tuck. And Tim and I need to do a picture inventory and decide which prints and paintings go back up on the walls, and where, now that we have a bit more space. It’s all good, and the once distant and seemingly elusive completion date, set in my mind’s eye of 17 March, looks promising.

To quote that well-known band Europe, it’s the final countdown.

Jubilation

It is such a remarkable summer in Britain, and a part of me feels as an expat that I should remark on the events that are exclusive to my place of residence.

First, the Diamond Jubilee. I did not stay in London, did not join the huge throngs lined up along the Thames to watch the Flotilla. Tim was participating in the Diamond Jubilee Regatta in Cowes, a series of races over the holiday weekend that began with a sail around the island followed by shorter races on Sunday and Monday.  My dear friend Leah came down to join her beau and was not sailing, so we had the opportunity to pull up stools at the local pub and watch the flotilla on a big screen TV. I must say, it was grand. There was this buzz, this anticipation about all sorts of things—what colour would HRH be wearing? Will it rain on her parade? How many boats are actually IN the flotilla? Well, I have to admit, I got slightly choked up when the Queen stepped out of her Bentley; she is a remarkable, elegant, truly regal woman and I was filled with respect for her. The weather was awful, yet she smiled and waved and stood for hours to the delight of all of those onlookers lining the waterfront.  It was fabulous watching (we could hardly hear the TV) and Leah and I enjoyed the lunch, the conversation, and the chance to see it all from a very comfortable position—maybe not the best seat in the house, but certainly one of the driest!

We had a funny incident at one of the post-sailing barbies that I still smile at: we popped into a water taxi to head back to Cowes after a less-than-inspiring gathering at the East Cowes Sailing Club where the beef was grey like the skies—to be fair, the BBQ was sponsored by a local charity, so the money we paid was not for a posh meal but for the hospice. It was edible, it just wasn’t very good. At the barbie there was a couple wearing HRH and Prince Philip masks, dancing in an oddly, almost creepy tete-a-tete, and just as we were getting ready to leave on the taxi the Queen pops into our boat! It turns out she was the boat driver’s mum bringing him some food. The way she wore the mask--with a scarf around her head--she looked, again quite oddly, just like the queen. We asked if we could take her photo, and she laughed and agreed, giving us a decidedly American pose when she detected photographer Taron's accent.

The picture quickly found its way on Facebook, and I sent it around to some friends the next day, some of whom commented at how authentic our fellow water taxi passenger appeared.

On Monday Tim and I planned to go see a local Isle of Wight Celtic band, but missed their set and instead found ourselves at the same pub Leah and I sat in, this time to watch the concert and fireworks that ended the Jubilee weekend. I found some of it odd—Alfie Boe and his duet companion Renee Fleming singing a tune from West Side Story . . . how is that a celebration of something quite British? Stevie Wonder? Well, it was all good, just not very British to me. I absolutely loved Madness doing “Our House” as they flashed different London scenes and buildings on to Buckingham Palace; if you haven’t seen it, give it a look here.

And so went the Diamond Jubilee. Britain was closed for an extra holiday, which was quite nice and gave us a chance to relax together after a busy weekend in Cowes. I was glad to have seen some of the events, even digitally, and felt it was a nice juxtaposition to the start of the weekend where we celebrated Leah’s birthday with a cake decorated with a huge American flag! Tim arranged it with the Island Sailing Club and it was just lovely, much like Leah.

Next, the quintessential British summer weather. To sum it up in one word: rubbish. When I first came to England I was surprised at how much the natives talked about the weather--always a good ice breaker, but this was beyond polite conversation. The whingeing! Well, having experienced what is now my fifth British summer, I can understand why everyone goes on about it. This year has been particularly bleak—not many days above 20 C / 70 F, and while there was a drought in May, it feels like it has not stopped raining since June. There are some positively glorious days which are little treasures, and I find myself wanting to sit in the garden until it gets too chilly or the dusk gives way to darkness, knowing that these are precious evenings indeed. Those of you who have been following Wimbledon know how it’s been a bit wet and windy this year; just imagine those two weeks repeated over three months! I do not envy New Jerseyites who are sweltering in scorching 38 C / 100 F, but I must say there are days in London when I simply shake my head at how many layers I’m wearing in summer, and how there are more women wearing scarves (and I mean the bulky kind) and boots in June and July than there are donning flip flops and tees! It makes an upcoming trip to sail in Turkey that much more desirable. I’ve just checked the low /highs for the week we’ll be there, and the low is London’s high, and the high is just under the scorching weather New Jersey has been experiencing—so I guess we'll get the best of both worlds there!

Last, a note about the Olympics. I’m nervous. I’m excited. I’m half-thinking to escape, at least for some part of the two weeks where the world descends on London and some of its outer reaches. I have been boarding crowded buses and trains in the last few weeks thinking how is London going to handle the crowds that haven’t arrived yet? Some of us still have to go to work, still need to take some transport. We’ll have to grin and bear it, adjust our hours and our attitudes and be polite to our visitors. I’m excited that I will be, at least for some part of the two weeks, in an Olympic hosting city. I may even go to one of the sailing events (albeit in Weymouth), and am anticipating the excitement in what is already a vibrant city. I know I will need to get to the office—training schedule in place, I will need to be there for the first of the two weeks. The second week, at the moment, is blissfully free of appointments that require me to find my way to Chancery Lane, which has been designated as one of the hotspots (likely because the station is on the Central Line, with a direct link to Stratford where the Olympic stadium and its surrounding park are poised.

A very exciting, unique British summer indeed. Excepting the dreadful weather!