29 November 2017


When I sit down to relax I sit on a sofa facing the window and garden, and just lately I have been studying faces. Do you look at something and see something different. I know I’m crazy, but it’s something I have always done since childhood. I could look at the design in wallpaper and see a face, comical or otherwise. I guess I’m in my second childhood! I take a second look to make sure I didn’t imagine it and more often than not the eyes zoom in to where I want them to go. Other times, they let me down.

The other day I saw the profile of an old, pointed, beak-like nosed pixie, complete with green hat, but he escaped further detection. I searched the bush from afar, but it was no use. The pixie remained unseeable. Perhaps he ducked behind a branch, or maybe he’d just gone for a walk round. I took the photo hoping that someone else would be able to spot the face, to the right of the tabletop. No prizes, just proof that others can see it. The guy who came to service my gas fire spotted it, which made me feel less of an idiot. 

He/it (the pixie) disappeared briefly when a strong wind blew the leaves all over the place but he/it returned when the weather calmed down and the leaves were still.

I couldn't see him/it at first, I guess the eyes or brain had rested but it wasn't long before I saw him/it again. It was a little bit windy and it looked for all the world as though he was chatting to something on the branch next to him, nodding his head in agreement with some interesting remark. I haven't lost him since. Every time I look he's there but I guess he'll move on next spring.

I have seen figures in bushes and trees and long grass. Now the big question is – am I going doolally! Answers on a postcard, please.

25 November 2017



It was there, wedged deep in her imagination, as monumental a dwelling as any other she could remember; not monumental in the true sense, but remarkable in its importance. She could visualize the latticed casement-windows; the crooked chimney with its four pots issuing smoke even in summer; the old-fashioned roses around the low, warped door, its thorny offshoots stealing towards the brass horseshoe, displayed with a kind of imperious pride ... if domiciles were capable of possessing such sentiments.

The image was as true as any photograph; only, however detailed a photograph, it could not immortalise the smells of the place: the aroma of Weetabix, warm milk and honey that greeted each day, and the farmyard odour ever present beyond the cottage door. Ascending into the endlessly azure sky were two granolithic gate pillars, tops like pyramids and girths as wide, it seemed, as the chicken house. It was where she would climb to watch the cows come by for milking.

She allowed her mind to wander the surrounding sunlit lanes, hopscotching shadows the way she used to, frequently interrupting the game to perform handstands against crumbling walls, or select the longest grasses to tickle her father's neck. And then, prompted by thoughts of her father and his favourite pastime, she recalled those restful periods when, surrounded by angling paraphernalia, she quietly watched the salmon leap in the Herefordshire river. Yes, it was there, immutably lodged in her imagination, and that's what she wanted to find; it was what she'd been searching for this past hour.

Vida Maitland reversed the Renault onto a bumpy dirt path and switched off the engine, thinking in her frustration that if anyone told her to move she'd probably explode. She had been driving from one coterie of cottages to the next, coasting unnamed narrow lanes, none of which had passing places, and had even enquired in isolated shops, but no-one knew the location of the place she sought.

Despondently, she unscrewed a beaker of orange juice and took a sip, seriously wondering if the journey had been a waste of time. Balancing the beaker on her knee, one finger curled round it's base, she leaned back and closed her eyes, willing the picture to return. Her mind's eye travelled the lanes, giving way at crossroads, unnecessarily since hers was the only car. It was then, during one of the mandatory pauses, that she saw where she had gone wrong. The signpost in the foreground was askew; it pointed straight ahead instead of sending her to the left: to Verdun Cottage.

Forgetting the beaker, she shot up and swiftly started the engine, unaware of the orange juice seeping through her tights. She drove recklessly in her eagerness, bidden by memories to visit the cottage she remembered so well; to see the sheep and the goats, and the arbor with the overhead brush of honeysuckle, and the wilderness garden to the side of the farm, all set in the heart of pasture-land and encouragingly near the river.

A second signpost told her to turn right. As she rounded the corner, lo and behold, she saw it: Verdun Cottage, as beautiful as it ever was, but significantly smaller. She stopped the car and wrenched the brake, staring disbelievingly at the scene. The granolithic gate supports, the crooked chimney, and the door with the strong-smelling roses, were, after the enlargement in her mind, almost fairylike in size. The chicken house which she was sure had been at the side, by the back door which opened onto the farm, was now by the stone wall which ran along the lane.

Slowly, she climbed out of the immaculate red Renault, and walked towards the restyled structure, looking for evidence of a busy farm. But all she could see were the relics of bygone days: a dilapidated tractor parked alongside a gang of rusted milk churns, a disused pig trough, a roll of chicken wire with a duration's grass growing through.

'Not thinking of buying it, are you, m'dear?' The full-toned voice belonged to a wizened old man with a twinkling eye and a straw in his mouth.

Vida gulped and incoherently gabbled something about visiting a childhood haunt. 'For holidays,' she whispered, unable to take her eyes off the bobbing straw. Without another word being spoken, she knew she'd been right to come. Her memory had played tricks over the cottage, nothing was as she remembered, but the ageing farmer, with his white hair and unshorn chin, wearing the same impish grin and bearing the same, familiar, rustic scents, made the excursion wonderfully worthwhile. The crooked chimney might be crumbling, the roses might be holding the woodwork intact, and the monstrous gate pillars might be too big for such a bantam property, but this was where she wanted to be.

Impulsively, she reached out to touch the farmer's skinny arm. 'If you're thinking of selling,' she said, 'I'm definitely buying.'

22 November 2017

Fifty Years of Matrimony

Flour-covered hands suspended their activities in the mixing bowl as she paused to gaze dreamily out of the kitchen window. Her concentration was lax, normal attentiveness to the job in hand completely awry. All morning her mind had centred on the reason for the forthcoming celebration rather than the preparation.

A grey squirrel darted up the path to the front lawn, then scampered up the chestnut tree causing two blackbirds to squawk their alarm. Watching this action, Joyce felt her own unease, a stranger suddenly in her own kitchen, as if she had been spirited there from a bygone age. The lounge clock struck eleven; each chime was like a signal that the finishing post was in sight. Was she really on the final strait of the fifty year race?

Abandoning her baking, she wiped her hands on a blue and white towel and dropped onto a chair, uttering a huge, disbelieving sigh. Somewhat pensively she allowed herself to review the years, wondering at the swiftness of their passing, pondering on the perceptions she began with, the skirmishes, the adventures, and the myriad of achievements. It was a Saturday in September when she gambolled happily into marriage. Who would believe that fifty years could travel so rapidly into distant time?

Picking up a forgotten mug of coffee, cold now but welcome nevertheless, Joyce sipped the brown liquid. Grimacing at its bitterness she rested the mug on her knee, tracing the design of vines round the rim as she allowed herself to reminisce. Oh, the yarns she could spin, anecdotes both humorous and sad. How much she had learned. What advice she could give about life. So valuable; so precious. Unwittingly, she hummed the Wedding March, familiar still notwithstanding that matrimony was currently, incredibly, less popular with the modern generation. Don't know what they're missing, she murmured, rising to put the mug to soak.

In a more accepting frame of mind, less concerned now by the speed of things, she leaned against the sink and looked out at the garden: geraniums like a crimson sea, marigolds as bright as the sun, dahlias like orange orbs, a colour scheme as diverse as matrimonial occupation, and as satisfying.

The squirrel had been joined by another, somersaulting, racing, chasing, no time for contemplation. Like the fifty years just gone. Shadowy images besieged her: her family, her children and their children, her husband guiding her from the altar where they made their vows.

Wilt thou take this man to be your lawful wedded husband?

Thrills whisked her insides as she remembered that glorious day.

I will, she had promised. I will.


Forgive me, but this is the time of year that Joe and I got engaged so I thought I would celebrate the occasion by re-blogging my feelings.

20 November 2017


Let's Go To The Ball

In 1954 Patrick and I did the journey to Capecastle to celebrate his parents ruby wedding, a grand affair with a marquee and a slap-up meal and attended, it seemed, by the entire population of Northern Ireland.

'A great fuss,' grumbled Patrick, who was not keen on crowded functions. Nevertheless, he didn't mind joining his four brothers for after-dinner drinks … half a crate of Bushmills whiskey which was probably still illicit. And he didn't mind staying in bed the whole of the following day and night, cursing the pain in his head and blaming me for allowing it to happen.

Well, I enjoyed the anniversary party but if you were to ask me what I ate or to outline the topics discussed around the table I'd be hard pressed to remember. What does come to mind was the decision of the Portrush group to attend the village ball. It would be a perfect end to a perfect day. Or so I was led to believe.

My dress was ideal for a ball being ankle-length and created from shimmering pink parachute silk, though the high-heeled satin shoes were hardly fit for walking the dark and muddy lanes. Patrick assured me that I looked like a princess. I took that with a pinch of salt considering his inebriated condition.

Brimming over with jollity, we arrived at the dance hall. I remember turning the corner of the lane and seeing the single lantern over the door of a wooden hut. And I remember the mirth deserting my soul. I had expected more than a decrepit shack to dance in. I had expected to be whirling around a Casino-type place in the arms of my well-oiled husband.

One of the brothers took my arm and guided me towards the entrance. Patrick trailed behind singing Baa Baa Black Sheep. I was mortified when we reached the door and Patrick began chanting, Yes, sir; Yes, sir, three bags full, to the amusement of the man on the door. I was so humiliated ... and was even more so when the doorkeeper seized my left hand and quick as a flash imprinted the back with a black-ink date stamp. My entrance ticket, I was told, and a pass-out. I complained bitterly about the mess but was reassured that the ink would eventually wash off. The word ‘eventually’ bothered me no end.

Inside that glorified shed, straight-backed wooden chairs were arranged in rows on two sides, with a single chair bang in the middle of the floor. A red-cheeked, robust individual with a shillelagh under his arm paced to and fro inspecting the floor and shouting instructions to an elderly man in a grey cap and tweed jacket who was scattering chalk like he was feeding the fowl.

And then the band arrived. 'Here's the band,' Patrick cried, as one man and his fiddle sauntered towards the chair in the centre of the room. I closed my eyes, convinced I was hallucinating, but opened them again when the first musical strains hit the air. The fiddler was standing on the wobbly chair, tapping one hob-nailed boot in tune to an Irish jig, his red polka-dot kerchief crumpled between the fiddle and his chin. Around him ruddy-faced farmers, fingers dyed blue with crop spray, danced at arms-length with their wives, solemn-faced women, straight-legged and aloof.

Totally bewildered, I joined Patrick and the brothers on the hard chairs and bemoaned my fate. I felt like an overdressed dummy though Patrick continued to assure me I was the belle of the ball. If he could've transferred his intoxication to the poker-faced couples on the chalk-strewn floor, I would have been better pleased. If he had been sober, my presence in a room smelling of classrooms and wood yards might have been more tolerable. And then I saw the funny side of it. I started to laugh, and Patrick laughed, and the brothers joined in. The fiddle-player grinned and broke into a livelier jig. And I wouldn't have missed the experience for the world.

So when I am asked what my in-laws ruby wedding was like, I reply with truth that it was a remarkable affair. But it's not the event that comes to mind, it's the jolly-faced fiddle player with the polka-dot kerchief and the amiable grin.

Please note that this is almost a true story; although I was there and at that dance I felt obliged to change all names

19 November 2017

Confusion Reigns!

This is a follow-up of my last post, written because one of you might have an inkling as to what I should do. I think this is the first time in my life that I have been so flummoxed. 

I am still wondering what to do for the best ... something or nothing? On hearing what doctor said friend, Judy, instructed me to phone the hospital for the result. I waited for the weekend to pass rather than upset the hospital staff by phoning on their days off!!! So, to be prepared for making a Monday phone call, I fished out the letter received before I had the procedure. 

Below is a photo of the instructions received from hospital prior to gastroscopy (not endoscopy as quoted on  earlier post). There is a list of do's and don'ts but it distinctly says 'copy report will be sent to doctor within 10-14 days'.  It goes on to say PLEASE DO NOT TELEPHONE US TO FIND OUT RESULTS. 
Which begs the question, if the doctor says it is not his responsibility to give me the results, whose flippin' responsibility is it?

17 November 2017


It is three weeks since I had the endoscopy (a camera inserted in the gullet). At the time, after I had been dealt with, I was told by the head technician that the result would be known in ten days. 

This was a different hospital and better than the one where the gall bladder was scanned. At that time, I was told the result on the spot and the doctor knew the next day. I too received a letter from the hospital to say no problem had been found. The doctor had the same letter and promptly phoned me up with the good news. It was then he persuaded me to consider having the camera scan to find out if anything else could be found to warrant the pain I’d been in.

This second examination had a longer wait before the verdict was known. Ten days, they said. Ten days came and went and I heard nothing except a lot of jokes that no news was good news. I got to thinking the same for a while but after three weeks elapsed I began to feel concerned. My friend nagged me to get in touch with the surgery, which I did. She has to hold my hand sometimes!

Test results and the like means ringing the doctor’s secretary so that the doctor doesn’t get interrupted in the good work he’s doing. A big exclamation mark at this point  

I decided that today was the day I stopped being a coward and ring the surgery for the result of the scan. The system at our surgery is to go through the secretary’s office for results. This I did. After much checking who I was, right down to date of birth (ugh!), she happily told me that the note attached to my record was ‘NO FURTHER ACTION’.

A welcome response, and one I was pleased to hear, but why wasn’t I told? 

The earlier medical examination had provided a result and I had been informed – twice – so why not this time. All the doc had to do was pick up the phone, or even get his secretary to do it.

I put the phone down and began to seethe, so I rang back and formally placed a complaint. I asked that the doctor rings me with an explanation. He did so after the first examination so why not now? Secretary said I should make an appointment to see him (three weeks delay there) so I said I couldn’t get there. That’s the truth. Since I got rid of my car I have to take taxis everywhere and why should I fork out when the doctor could just ring me with the news. She said she would ask him to ring me. 

Anyway, although it’s good news I still don’t know the cause of all the problems.  I guess I just keep taking the painkiller

Thanks for listening reading, folks, it did me good to write it down, removing of some of the angst.

Hope you all have a wonderful weekend.

PS, after writing the above I had a phone call from the doctor. He was a little put out by my phone call and told me that it wasn't his job to tell me what was what as referral to hospital meant I was then their responsibility. I think he changes the rules as he goes along. It still doesn't alter the fact that nobody told me anything. However, he did let slip that a lot of tummy parts were fine. Of course, none of this reveals why I was in so much pain!!!!!

13 November 2017


My Joe didn’t often go shopping on his own but he decided that when he needed a new pillow he was the one to buy it. What he meant was, he wouldn’t like what I chose. So I let him go to the store on his own, secretly pleased since the two of us together should never be let loose in big stores. 

He spent more on the pillow than I would but that was his affair, not mine. Actually, his choice was good, or so he said. It was one of those pillows that remembered where you liked to put your head but always came back to the original position … a bit like memory foam, I suppose.

I have a memory foam mattress and hate it. However, since it is less than two years old I have to put up with it. Do you like sleeping on a bed that tells YOU where you should lie? I like to be my own boss in my own bed so one of these days I might change the damn thing. But I’m getting away from the subject……


I have to admit that my pillows were long past their sell-by date. In fact, they could be classed as archaic. So, I turned them over to the cat since he likes a pillow to lie on. One here, another there, sort of thing. I think he likes the pillow cases as much as anything. So what to do? Well, it’s obvious, use Joe’s still-new pillow – me, not the cat.

It is comfortable to lay the head on but moving to a different position promotes pillow talk. Yes, it makes peculiar noises while it settles in the new place. No kidding. I sometimes do a count to see how long it takes to settle. I guess you could say the pillow won’t settle until it’s had a chat but I ask you – at midnight? I need to sleep, I don’t need to have a conversation with a stupid pillow that is still as good as new so doesn’t warrant being chucked out.

Does anyone else have a talking pillow?

09 November 2017


This would be funnier if it wasn't so true. Someone had to remind me, so I'm reminding you...

01. Kidnappers are not very interested in you

02. In a hostage situation you are likely to be released first

03. No one expects you to run--anywhere

04. People call at PM and ask, Did I wake you?

05. People no longer view you as a hypochondriac

06. There is nothing left to learn the hard way

07. Things you buy now won't wear out

08. You can eat supper at PM

09. You can live without sex but not your glasses

10. You get into heated arguments about pension plans

11. You no longer think of speed limits as a challenge

12. You quit trying to hold your stomach in no matter who walks into the room

13. You sing along with elevator music

14. Your eyes won't get much worse

15. Your investment in health insurance is finally beginning to pay off

16. Your joints are more accurate meteorologists than the national weather              service

17. Your secrets are safe with your friends because they can't remember them          either

18. Your supply of brain cells is finally down to manageable size

19. You can't remember who sent you this list


Forward this to everyone you can remember right now!

Never, under any circumstances, take a sleeping pill and a laxative on the same night

04 November 2017

The Letter (written in 2009)

Spot the deliberate omission!

Tired of staring at the Headmaster's ample girth she transferred her scrutiny to the clock, its brass fingers glistening in the morning sun. A solitary wasp hovered near, duped by the brightness. Dust motes prepared to dance in more mature rays. Nine twenty-four-and-a-half. Somewhere in the distance sirens wailed. Fire-fighting appliances, she thought, but couldn't be sure. As the big finger clicked onto the five she estimated that ten minutes had elapsed since being summoned to the stage, in disgrace for reading in assembly and not singing hymns. The second accusation was a joke. She wasn't singing up here either. Nine twenty-six. She flinched as the wasp whizzed past her ear. Her shoulders ached through standing at attention. What wouldn't she give to slouch, to stand with hands in pockets and legs crossed in unladylike fashion? Nine-thirty. The final hymn commenced. Perhaps now she would be excused.

As the piano's last notes faded the Headmaster, with a grim glance in her direction, extracted the letter from his pocket, strewing twisted toffee papers and spent matches in the process. She was horrified. Surely he wasn't going to recite the letter to the entire upper school. Had he no regard for her feelings? As if confiscation was not enough, was he going to reprimand her in front of her friends? Not daring to look at the mass of students before her, she bowed her head and fixed her sights on the wrappers lying on the waxed floor. Shifting her weight to the other foot, she thought how unfair the situation was. It should be Matthew on display not her. After all, he wrote the letter.

The Principal placed the letter on the lectern, squaring it with the top edge and securing it with his leather-bound bible. Stroking his goatee beard he solemnly scanned the room, peering over the tortoiseshell spectacles he used for reading. He cleared his throat and began to condemn her personal possession as a piece of worthless trash, expounding the importance of upholding moral values.

Surreptitiously, she withdrew her handkerchief to swab her clammy hands. She tried to remember what Matthew had written which had driven the Head to lecture and his emaciated deputy to look aghast. Was it the reference to their engaging activities at the youth club or the comments about kissing in the Odeon? Or was it the mention of how many babies they would one day have? If it was the latter then they need worry no more. The romance was over. Crumpling the handkerchief in a tight ball, she vowed never to speak to Matthew Kelly again.

At length the assembly was dismissed. The Headmaster disappeared through a side door ahead of an entourage of mentors, his deputy scuttling behind, his scholars on trust to repair quietly and in single file to their respective classrooms. As she retrieved the letter from the lectern, peals of boyish tittering penetrated the corridors like shards of friendly derision. Guessing that Matthew had admitted his folly to his mates it occurred to her that he was more astute than she gave him credit for. Not signing his name on the letter was a brilliant stroke - it enabled him to survey from afar the agonizing drama on stage. Fierce loathing surged like a fountain, sending ripples of repugnance through her body, making it imperative to eradicate Matthew Sebastian Kelly from her life.

The girls rally round

The girls rallied to support her and express their anger. One or two confessed they wouldn't mind reading the letter, their curiosity having been aroused by the Head's remarks about lust baring its evil face and declaring his intention to stamp it out before it became rife. She could not fathom how a man with such a narrow viewpoint had accomplished the siring of twins. Ordinarily she would seek Matthew's opinion on such a subject, but after enduring such humiliation she was disinclined to breach her pledge not to communicate.

Dinner hour was spent by the river with Kate, a gawky girl, slow to blossom, her attraction to boys being in the nature of a willingness to mind coats during football games. Her knee-high grey socks graced her ankles, elastic garters unsuccessful in their objective. Beside her on the grassy bank was a square lunch box filled with beef and pickle sandwiches. There was also an apple, a pear, and a banana. While studying the antics of a pair of mallards, a sandwich in one hand, can of Cola in the other, the girl spoke of failing to understand what the hoo-ha was all about, claiming it was sweet of Matthew to pen those lovely words. Such expressions would make her proud to be the recipient.

The girl wedged the can in the grass and chewed a segment of her sandwich before adding that when her chance came to procure a boyfriend she hoped he would refer to her as sexy and allude to her boobs as terrific. The girl wiped a hand over her brow as if allusion to the female form had brought on a fever.

Showing Matthew's letter had obviously been a big mistake. Rather than pity the plight he generated, the girl was applauding him. The Head's action had been assessed as scathing, bearing in mind that Matthew was such an affectionate lad, with desirable attributes most girls would simply die for. No thought was given to the distress he caused or his incomprehensible reluctance to share the anguish of centre-stage exposure. The whole conversation served to cement the decision to steer clear of Matthew Kelly.

At the end of the interminable afternoon Matthew romped out of the school building with countless companions cuffing his back as though he was some kind of genius. It pained her to see his arrogant stance as he took part in a game of fisticuffs with the former group leader, a burly lad deposed to lower ranks by one of Matthew's knock-out punches. Several times the other boys glanced at her with rude admiration, though their leader paid no heed. His eyes were glued to his wily opponent, oblivious to everything else. The girl Kate was at her post by the green railings, surrounded by sports bags and coats, her socks in base position, the tip of her tongue protruding from the side of her mouth as she eyed Matthew with adolescent reverence. Sudden cheers and acclaims of Good on ya, Matty, indicated the end of the amicable battle. Happy to have won, Matthew recovered his blazer, hurled 'See you' at his gang and propelled himself through the iron gates.

Defiance and anger set in

Observing the Headmaster strutting across the quadrangle with his haggard deputy, it occurred to her that he had unwittingly done her a huge favour. But for him, she would still be passing herself off as Matthew's girl, with her head in the clouds, her brain fuddled by adulation. 'Never again,' she muttered as she advanced towards the gates. It would be a long time hence before she dated boys, particularly fickle ones.

Slinging her blazer across one shoulder, dragging her satchel by its strap, she sauntered home and summed up the day. This morning she had a boyfriend; now she had nothing. Tossing her hair from her face, she thought how satisfying it was to be free of Matthew who had swaggered around all day enjoying the kudos of his conquest. Angrily, she booted a stone into the gutter, kicking so energetically that her blazer fell to the ground. She picked it up and shook it vigorously to expel the street dust. The letter slipped out of the pocket. Promptly her hand shot out, but she was not quick enough to save it and the envelope coasted through a grating. She laughed, professing it to be the best place for it. Maybe it would end up in a sewer full of rats. Maybe one of them would enjoy chewing a fellow rat's scribblings.

Relocating the blazer she journeyed on, pondering whether or not to relate the Headmaster's deed to her folks. It might be relayed to them by sundry well-meaning neighbours, those with girls in the same form as herself, spiteful females who couldn't boy-catch if their lives depended on it. But there was no need to tell. Her parents had educated their offspring properly. They trusted them to do the right thing and not plunder the family honour. Her brother would plague her, but it would be good natured. He fancied that being the eldest gave him the authority to tease. She told herself she had brought no shame on her family. It was Matthew who committed the outrage, she had merely read it.

Suddenly hungry she broke into a run, tugging her tie from her neck as she went, almost drooling in anticipation of the beef stew her mother had promised for tea, with apple pie to follow.

She veered round the corner, then stopped dead. Matthew was leaning on her garden gate, his blazer dumped at his feet. His face was streaked with dried ice cream, his blue tie askew, his funny blonde quiff standing erect. He held a bouquet of wild flowers, the big daisies that grew by the churchyard wall, sweet peas from outside the railway station. Matthew bestowed upon her the cheeky, loveable grin which attracted her to him in the first place. Giving a noble bow, he proffered the flowers. Seeing his knuckles scratched and bruised and the knee of his grey trousers torn, she was charged with emotion and a savage desire to protect him, and in that instant she knew that one day they would have babies - and to hell with the Head's philosophies.

02 November 2017


endoscopy camera

Okay, I did it and I never want to do it again. Do what, I hear you ask. I am, of course, talking about photography, but not the sort of photography you thought of. Mine was an attempt by doctors to view me from the inside. It worked, so I believe, although at this stage I haven’t had the result of the investigation.

Everyone told me there was nothing to the procedure of having a camera inserted in the mouth and down the throat, though they did tell me that it would be tiny instead of my imagined camera and tripod!! They didn’t tell me how it would feel or how I would feel. 

I was advised by the hospital staff to go for a local anaesthetic rather than sedation on the grounds that I would have nobody to escort me home after a bit of a sleep. This meant I was fully aware of what seemed like a great lump of steel being shoved down my throat. Swallow, the doc said, and I tried, but the blessed camera seemed to be in the way. I did my best to relax and the nurse who was holding my head and my hand kept telling me I was doing really, really well. I believed her for a while, that is until it felt like the camera was twisting round inside me.

There were lots of ‘strings’, mainly pink ones, which the doc’s assistant kept pulling away. As she did so she gave each one a number and a name. I presume it was some kind of film but I didn’t dwell on it because I was too wrapped up trying not to pass out. And then it was over, done and dusted as they say. I reckon the procedure lasted about ten minutes but I may be wrong on that score. I was forced to have a bit of a rest afterwards even though I wanted to get the hell out of there, but the nurses kept popping in to make sure I was okay. As I'll ever be, was my thought!

There's only one word for the nursing staff ... brilliant,  what's more they were friendly (unlike two unfriendly ones I had the displeasure of meeting at another hospital) and full of little jokes. One of the jokes was given to me at the end of the procedure, when my head holding nurse laughed and said there would be no more today but they would have another go tomorrow … and to think I almost believed her.

Strangely enough the back pain lessened as soon as the operation was over.  You should have heard me bragging to my neighbours as we sat in their house drinking tea and eating cake. The cake was homemade and gorgeous bearing in mind I’d had nothing to eat for very many hours. What a pity the pain returned to spoil the day, now it comes and goes!

It is a week since the procedure and today I tried lying on the floor to relieve the back pain. It worked - hell at first but it gradually loosened up. Now I’m thinking I should get back to the chiropractor and resume the treatment I had to stop because of the other overwhelming problem.

I await the doctor’s comments when he gets the hospital report. Will everyone please keep their fingers crossed that the news is good.