My dear brother

It's over three months since our mother slept away. Is she with you? I like to think so. Through the gloom of my sadness at losing the two of you so close together, I often glimpse a bright image of your sharing tea and cake. You are both smiling, relaxed. No sign of the mutually inflamed anxieties which often caused tetchy fireworks when we all met. She loved us though, our mother. I can say that now with absolute certainty. I hope you know it too. Perhaps she's even telling you, as she never could when she was alive.

As for me, I have become a one-pointed triangle. We were the Boardman trinity, we three. It was not easy or idyllic but we drew strength from the presence of each other, despite the impatient words, the accusing silences, the infuriating absences. I didn't realised how special that triplicate mini-family was to me. I miss you both; miss knowing you are there, your fundamental knowledge of me borne of those early days together.

I won't regret, for that would risk tainting my memories of you. But if I could change one thing, it would be the hours we spent discussing our maternal concerns. I believe now that  our mother lived the life she chose. She loved her home and the enduring security of her second marriage. She adored time with her family but latterly would  forfeit that if it meant leaving the house. She was happy and the life we fondly assumed she was missing, did not exist for her.

And she had earned the right to make those choices. She struggled to keep our wobbling trio together when it would have been easier to give up and return to the comfort of her childhood home.  

I am determined to remember the good moments. Family times, wry humour, the mock exasperation - how dare you insult the matriarch and on your feet Pearl - abundant food, the repressed but unmistakable pride.

I am lucky; I am loved, by a wonderful woman and more than my share of family and friends. Still I find myself missing our triptych. No-one knew me as well or as long as you two. Now I must draw strength from that knowledge and from the indomitable bond formed when we three faced the world together.  

Water therapy

Swimming in the sea is so affirming. I waddle penguin-like along the beach. Each ungainly step takes me closer to the moment of blissful plunging. I know no hesitation, have total confidence in the water which will bestow a grace and fluidity I can only dream of on land.
I do scream - you have to scream. This is after all, the North Sea and not the Mediterranean. Even after several weeks of locationally rare temperatures, it's cold. But once you've screamed and splashed about a bit you hardly notice.
I emerge tingling, reassure the vigilant Jack Russell and return to my clothes with the poetic motion of a prima ballerina.

I'm a believer

We accepted an offer on the house today. The implications of this provoke a spectrum of emotions including elation, terror, optimism, pessimism, excitement and exhaustion.
The challenge now is to believe. Believe it will all go through with no hitches, believe we will find a house which will be our home for many years to come, believe we can move again without total nervous and physical breakdown, believe this is the right time, our time.
Our nearest and dearest split into two definite groups about this news; there are those who are keen to celebrate and look forward to seeing us back in the place we feel at home. On the other hand there are those who are sad about the prospect of our leaving, suspecting that it means we will see much less of them, perhaps even lose touch.
I understand both of these perspectives. My own is that we are destined to return North, to the place of achingly beautiful vistas where we feel whole and at home.
It is not physical but emotional distance which keeps people apart. In time I will prove that to all the doubters. In the meantime, let's get back up the road!!

Blockages

I have a blocked nose and a husky voice, the non-sexy version. I cough, sniff and clear my throat with irritating frequency. I produce copious amounts of a vibrantly coloured substance upon the blowing of my nose. I am listless, lacking in energy and motivation. For some two weeks now, this has been my condition.
It is time to see the doctor. I have of course been booked in with the nurse practitioner. She is, I am assured, able to prescribe or refer. As an ex-nurse myself I am fully aware of the awesome knowledge base of many nurses. I only hope they are paying her appropriately to take on what would once have been the doctor's responsibility. (Hark! I hear the distant echoes of a million nurses laughing sardonically.)
Just after midday, I will see this nurse as I have before and found her unfailingly empathic and approachable. I imagine she will suggest a short course of antibiotics, fluids, paracetamol and rest. In two or three days, I hope to be feeling something approaching my normal optimistic and energetic self.

I look forward to welcoming her back.

My next career?

Watching the revisited episode of Embarrassing Bodies this evening, I learned there is yet another pervasive cancer threatening women; namely vulva cancer. Having recovered from the shock of several interviewees saying 'What's a vulva?' (Females!!) I was uncomfortably impressed by a woman who is a vulva heath specialist. She took off her lower garments, sat on the floor legs akimbo and demonstrated how to self-check your vulva to a room full of transfixed Keep Fitters.
The question I found myself asking is - Could I do this?
The answer.....
I want it to be Yes. In truth though, I'm not sure I'm comfortable enough with my own labia majora to investigate it in front of a group of women.
My own hang-ups notwithstanding, women of the world get familiar with your lower portions, just so you know if they're not as happy as they should be.

Humour and horsepower

I pedal around Rugby in an attempt to reverse 35 years of hedonism. My facial expression alters in direct relation to the gradients and whether I'm travelling up >:0(( or down :-))
It occurs to me, as multiple vehicles roar pass me seeming to resent my very existence, that you don't see many smiling motorists. What have they got to be grumpy about? When they reach a hill they just press harder on the accelerator.

Thought for the day

I miss Moray!