Daily Archives: June 11, 2005


…we’re still alive.

Actually, I have to say it, he’s not a bad little cook. He managed the pasta bake completely independently, only needing to call on my once when he overcooked the quickjel for the top of the peach flan and needed help sorting out the stodgy mess of red goo that he was trying to spoon over the peaches. I have to say that presentation isn’t his forte, and is maybe something we need to work on somewhat, but as to the taste there was only one thing wrong with it……. we could all have managed an extra helping!

Mean mummy – I made him do all the clearing up afterwards too. 😀 This is the life!

Blind faith?

Well, this is going to be interesting. I am sitting here doing serious work on the computer (as you see 😉 ) – updating my school records and finishing my preparation for tomorrow’s service – while, for the first time completely without the aid of a safety net, Tiddles is preparing the dinner. We did the same meal a week ago with me acting as kitchen assistant, but this week he’s on his own. Nerve racking indeed, but at least we’ve enough bread for toast if necessary.

This time next week he’ll be off on his grand adventure to the Peak District. He’s so excited, you could bottle the excitement and use it to make sparkling mineral water for a few months to come, I reckon. This afternoon, once I’ve done the ironing, we pack his bags in anticipation as it’s an early start next weekend and a busy couple of days before it. If I hear the words “Peak District” one more time in the next seven days, I think I shall scream! Poor Smudgelet will miss his big brother, though. A few treats for next week, I think.

I faced this week yet again the probability that we’re facing a decline into Alzheimer’s for Dad. He’s still lovely, but he can have such moments of total irrationality. I decided on Thursday that he’d better have Alzheimers for an excuse because otherwise I’d say something I’d regret about his selfishness in giving me a rollocking for not cooking him a full three-course meal while I was lying in bed feeling drained and listless after a stomach upset. (Apparently two hours was quite enough for me to spend being ill and then I should have pulled myself together and seen to my responsibilities rather than asking him to cook himself a jacket potato). He’s also set his mind on using the bus service to convey him to his hospital appointment next week if I refuse to take him (because I happen to be in work) – walking to and from the bus stop up an extremely steep hill – because he resents paying the £5 it would cost him to get a taxi door to door, or the £3 it would cost for a hospital car. After talking to my sister about it, I have decided to get him a bus timetable and leave him to make his own mind up!!! I just pray he’ll see sense before then.

He’s all of a lather because he’s done the unthinkable and spent some money. He’s getting – after much argument against it – a new reclining chair which automatically lifts you to your feet to help you stand. Lovely, it is… all in leather (which will be a blessing when he suddenly wakes from an unexpected nap and tips his cup of coffee all over the place!). He’s having a trolley on wheels to give him a bit more stability around the house, and he’s finally accepted that he’s going to have to fork out and replace the bath, although there’s still some persuading to do to convince him that a walk-in shower is going to be a far better investment than a bath with a door on it. He reckons the latter will be more sellable when his bungalow eventually goes on the market – he can’t see that the opposite is actually the truth, and that a walk in shower is far more practical anyway as it means I will be able to get alongside him to help him get clean. Whatever I say, he’ll do the opposite, so I’m just praying that the surveyor will be able to make him see sense.

As for me, I have my second service tomorrow. Think of me, if you will, at 11.am BST. I’m already having nightmares! It looks like I’ll be preaching to an organist and a congregation of approximately one. And this one is a local preacher of long-standing.. one who likes everything “politically correct” – who reprimanded my father for thanking him for leading worship “Don’t thank me brother, thank The Lord” – and who reprimanded my mentor for starting The Grace with the word “may” because it was sacriledgious to suggest that God might not do as asked! I decided that if he criticises the service I should say “Don’t criticise me brother, criticise… ” What do you reckon?