IN the meantime, I pack and tidy up the house, although not straying too far from the phone, just in case. The final act is to remove two decades of plush toy collecting, all now stained brown and good for nothing other than the bin. So, its into the bin they go.
By midday it is clear the call is not coming, so I call the ward and am told there is no bed at James Paget again for Mum, so she is staying. And this was known at nine, before I called the first time, meaning it was a morning wasted. I am beyond angry, maybe that is what happens when institutions become inefficient? That is hard, Mum is no longer an urgent case, just needs somewhere to go to recuperate, she already has a bed and support, just out of reach for all her friends as I am the only one prepared to travel the five plus hour return trip even just one day.
THe night before I had seen a couple of churches near to Diss, just a few minutes off the road, so I will stop off at them on the way down to do some snapping and to stop my head from going bang.
It is a fine day, but I spend the first 45 minutes driving to Diss, then following the sat nav nearly into the town centre, then off up a farm track, through a wood and ending up in the yard of an abandoned farm, but clearly the farmhouse was still being lived in. And in the corner of the yard is the gate with the church of Frenze beyond. Even better, as it is in the care of the Church Conservation Trust, I was fairly sure it would be open.
And it was. A simple building, little changed from around the 15th century, peppered with memorial brasses and ancient pews looking at a simple altar. There is also remains of some very old glass in the east window, which with the compact I could get some shots of those.But in such a small church, there is only so many shots one can take. But saying that I seem to have missed a couple of monkeys carved into a pew end. So, seems that you always need to take more.
With Harry Hill on RadMac on the wireless, I drive the eight miles to the other side of Diss to Shimpling. It appears there is a village in Suffolk with the same name, and a church with the same dedication; just to confuse things.
But Shimpling in Norfolk has a round tower and a spire on top, looking like some kind of medieval rocket about to launch. You reach it down a farm track, then along a muddy/grassy lane to the edge of the churchyard and the simple gates. St Peter is another under the care of the CCT, and I saw a sign for it at Frenze, making me only then realise it was so close. It also has a timeless quality, very rural, church to a place that is more of a street than a village.
But time was getting on, Harry Hill had finished on the radio meaning it was three, and with over an hour to go, I set the sat nav for Papworth and drove to the nearby A140 then back along the familiar 143, getting stuck behind tractors and slow moving lorries. At Bury I stop to fill up and get some late lunch, turns out a sandwich and a Coke is three forty, but add a pack of crisps and its three pounds. So a pack of crisps is minus forty pence?
From Bury it is just half an hour through Newmarket and Cambridge and out the other side, away from the heavy traffic queuing up to join the A14 towards the A1(M).
Anyway, I arrive at the hospital at twenty past four, and so have 70 minutes with Mum. I am all talked out with her, just nothing much to say, so Jools have brought up her scrapbooks from Japan, and a book made for the completion of the last project I worked on. So, Mum looked at those, asked questions and so passed half an hour.
Half five is when visiting hours end, so I have to leave. I could return in an hour, but I have to go back to Lowestoft again, and deal with rush hour through Cambridge. And it was pretty bad, but traffic kept moving, and I made Bury in an hour, and home in an hour and a half later. Nearly eight o'clock.
I make a sandwich and crack open a bottle of wine. Home tomorrow I thing to myself.
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