Cynical or what?

"The train now standing at Platform 1 is still half a mile away."

Yes, really! It seems that train companies count a train as having arrived at a station when the front of the train passes the last track-side detector before the station - which can be up to half a mile away. I really shouldn't be surprised. Before I retired, I commuted to London on a daily basis for some fourteen years (and boy, was I glad when that finished!). In an effort to "encourage" the railway companies to improve their performance, the railway watchdog decreed that season ticket holders were to be allowed a discount on renewal if the reliability of the service and the punctuality of the trains had not met given standards during the previous year. It took the operating companies very little time to realise that if they altered their timetables to show an arrival time a few minutes later than previously, more trains would arrive at their destinations on time. Mind you, "on time" meant anything up to ten minutes late.

So why is it that I am surprised by this latest revelation?

Put off

I wasn't surprised but the OB was disappointed when the hospital rang this morning and said that they couldn't fit her in today after all. They have apparently been inundated with patients who need operations more urgently. However, she now has to be at the hospital at 8.00am on Wednesday.

Books I've read

I don't recall ever having tried to write a review of a book I've read. Sure, doing A level English Lit meant dissecting books and writing essays on certain aspects, but I don't think it ever called for a review as such. The trouble with reviews, be they of books, films or anything, is that they are subjective: they can't help but be so, however hard the reviewer tries to be objective. Anyway, I thought that today I would try to write a short - very short - review of the book I have most recently read.

The Almond Blossom Appreciation Society is the third book by Chris Evans about his life as a hill-farmer in southern Spain. The one-time drummer with Genesis turned shepherd turned sheep-shearer established himself in Andalucia to scratch a living from the mountain soils. His books (Driving Over Lemons and A Parrot in the Pepper Tree were the forerunners) are basically a series of anecdotes about life on his farm and his dealings with neighbours both Spanish and of various other nationalities. He has an engaging, self-deprecating style of story telling, always more than happy to tell stories against himself, and the book is an amusing read. He has been compared favourably to Bill Bryson, but I don't think I could go that far.

If I were to rate books with between one and five stars, five indicating a book I will certainly read again and one a book I couldn't even finish, I think I would probably give The Almond Blossom Appreciation Society three stars.

Not forgotten

Yesterday morning while I was out with the dog, the hospital rang the OB just to tell her she had not been forgotten and they expected to be in touch either Saturday or early next week about the date of her operation. Then while I was out in the afternoon they rang again to advise that they have a slot in the operating theatre on Monday and they also have a surgeon available (I would have thought the one was of little use without the other) and they will ring again on Monday morning to arrange the time she should report. No food after 8.00pm Sunday, and only water after midnight. Our dear old National Health Service receives a lot of criticism, but we really cannot complain about the treatment her ladyship has received or the attitude of any of the staff with whom we had contact. On the other hand, the cleanliness of the hospital left a great deal to be desired: in fact it was filthy.

- - - - - - -

I mentioned some while ago that a lady had left home on 22 December to fetch the Christmas turkey. I gave the wrong date as she actually left home on 19 December. Yesterday's paper carried a report that she hopes to get back home sometime next week.

What a fun afternoon

So we had an early lunch and I got the car up the drive with the OB in it. We arrived at the hospital at 2.00pm and left again at 7.00pm. The nurse who examined her said she thought the OB had broken her wrist and the x-ray confirmed her opinion. Two doctors, one holding her hand and the other her elbow, subsequently pulled her arm back into more or less the correct position and slapped some plaster on it. Off for another x-ray to confirm that the bones in the wrist were now set where they should be (they were) and wait for the orthopedic consultant to check everything. He said that she will need an operation, which will probably be in about 10 days time.

Now we are trying to work out what we can do to have such fun this afternoon.

The best laid plans etc

It was, I think, the Scottish poet Robbie (or Rabbie if you prefer) Burns who wittered on about the plans of mice and men going pear-shaped. I am just another of those men. Having rested my wearying legs and back for a while, I returned to the snow clearing and had just started digging into the three inches of ice and compacted snow across the pavement when a neighbour came home from work. When he learned that I hoped to get the car out today to take SWMBO to the hospital, he went home and fetched a shovel to help. We eventually cleared two tracks just over a wheel wide (each) which I thought enough to get me up the drive and onto the road.

This morning I looked out of the window to find another two inches of snow had fallen, almost completely obliterating yesterday's work: and it's still snowing. So it's back to square one. Well, maybe square three.

Weather this bad is most unusual for us here, which reminds me of a quote from one of my favourite books, HMS Ulysses by Alistair MacLean. The scene is an inlet on the coast of Iceland during a particularly fierce gale from which a number of ships are sheltering during WW2. The wind blows back the flight deck of a merchantman converted to a carrier. With delightful understatement, an officer on a nearby ship says,'My word, that is unusual'.

Hey ho, time to tramp up to Asda, the dog foregoing her walk this morning (much to her disgust).

It started!

Having spent some time yesterday clearing snow and ice from part of the drive (I gave up when my back did the same), this morning I decided to clear some of the snow off the car in the hope that the doors weren't frozen shut and I could get in and try to start the engine. The gods were smiling on me as I opened the door easily and the engine started at the first attempt - the first time it has been started for a week. I suppose the layer of snow (there are still eight inches of the stuff on the roof) acted as a blanket and kept the engine warmer, or less cold, than it would have been without the snow. I then spent more time clearing the drive. There is just the stretch across the pavement and out into the wheel tracks in the road to go, so with a bit of luck I might manage to get the Old Bat to hospital tomorrow to have her wrist strapped.

Our local radio station yesterday announced that there was a four-foot long icicle at Crawley, a town some 20 miles north. I've measured our biggest one as best I can - if I open the window to do so I will knock it down - and I make it almost 4' 6", certainly more than 4'. It can be seen to the left of the window in this picture. We haven't bothered to call the radio station.