Friday 6th October 2017

I had decided that as soon as Mum was out of the ICU or maybe back home or at James Paget, I would go home. But then I realised this would mean that the tasks I came up for would fall on others, as mum sees friends as people to get to do jobs and chores. So, I will have to stick with being the dutiful son thing for a few weeks as yet.

But I had set the alarm so I was up bright and early after just five hours sleep, so I could have a shower, go to get Sheila the money she was owed. It was tempting to go into Tesco to get bacon and/or croissants, but after getting the money, I drive back home for breakfast of cereal using the full fat raw milk, and was lovely.

At nine I had to be at St Michael’s, Oulton to meet with Pat, as it emerged she has a key to get in, meaning I could see and photograph inside the church I was christened in. But to get there I had to pass two junior schools, or whatever they’re called now, and it was peak school run time, with people dumping their cars anywhere. Can’t kids walk to school now?

Pat is waiting at the church, with key, so we catch up with news on Mum, then go to the church. Of course, I see now it is a big church, and with a tower in the middle of the nave, quite unusual. So, I go round getting shots and looking at the memorials seeing if I recognised any local names. But I do see my great-uncle who died in the Great War listed on the war memorial. I had last seen his name carved on the wall at Tyne Cott.

I was done, and really should be making tracks, so we hug and I climb into the car and take the road through Camps Heath, then onwards to St Olaves, then the rad you know towards Bury.

This time I stopped at a different couple of churches. First call was Brockdish, a church just hidden behind a line of trees, shielding it from the main road, but I had glimpsed the tower yesterday, so, stopped today. You approach the church down a green lane, the sound of poorly rung bells could be heard as I got out of the car. Bell ringing lessons, apparently. The church is splendid, and there is a warden inside making tea for the ringers, and tells me of the history of the church. Visits like this really make church crawling so enjoyable.

I stop again at a greasy spoon just before Diss to have lunch; a cheeseburger and a coffee. The first coffee I have had since Sunday. I see another church nearby but decide to leave that for another day, and once I had eaten, I climb in the car and drive on. On the radio, Robert Plant was doing a live session on Radio 6, and listening to someone who is a legend, still being passionate about music, new music, was wonderful and inspiring.

Just before Bury St. Edmunds is Great Barton, and there is a sign pointing to a church, and after passing by many times, I decided that today was the day to go and see it.

Church of the Holy Innocents was about a mile along the road, and inside it is another gothic delight, and the pews filled with knitted prayer kneelers, looking very colourful indeed.

But it seems that I had lost track of time, and I really had to get going to make visiting time, so quickly got in the car and drove back to the main road and onto Bury and the A14. The sun was out, Robert Plant was ripping the studio up with his music, and making the drive, in bright sunshine, very enjoyable indeed.

All was going well until I neared Cambridge when the matrix signs warned of delays. Thinking quick, I turn down the A11, then cut across the 505 to the motorway, then back up re-joining the road beyond the jams, thus saving 25 minutes on the time stated on the signs.

There were then jams at the roundabout at the end of the dual carriageway, meaning that when I got to Papworth, there was twenty minutes remaining of visiting time, and once I got a parking ticket, and got up to the ICU there was just ten minutes left.

I told Mum how disappointed I was that she had badmouthed me to Janet, when all I wanted to do was help. A word of thanks would be nice. So, that off my chest, we talk some more then it was time for me to leave the ward, but I said I would return in an hour.

So I sit on a bench outside in the partial shade of a tree, watching people come and go; mostly nurses and doctors, but relatives too. Some looking worried, other laded with bags of things to take to someone on a ward. At three I go back to the ICU, talk some more with Mum and joke with the nurses. I am a card. But in half an hour, it was time to leave, and I was expecting a three hour plus journey back. The line of traffic to the main road was a mile long, but moved quickly.

To my amazement, there were no queues on the road past Cambridge, motoring past Newmarket and turning off at Bury and less than an hour had passed. I was happy now that I had got thus far, so with the radio on and the sun shining, I cruise back home, this time only stopping to fill up the car with fuel and have an ice cream as I drive through the Suffolk countryside in what was light traffic for a Friday afternoon.

I was back home in just two hours and five minutes, just after half five, and time for dinner, which this evening was cold sausage sandwiches. And a brew. And no wine.

The evening was spent writing, reviewing pictures while the usual Friday night TV shows plays in the background. And in 12 hours, I’m back on the road again.

Sigh.