To say we were both angry is underselling it somewhat. I was livid. Livid on Friday, livid on Saturday, and still bloody angry now. The whole point of us going up is supposed to mean that Sheila isn't bothered by such requests.
So, I wasn't in the best of moods when the alarm went off at half six, we got up and did the usual stuff, but Jools had an hospital appointment at eight, so I was to drop her off there, then drive north to Suffolk. Then do some stuff at the house, visit Mum then turn round and drive back home, arriving back at some time after eight in the evening. And all would be OK if the weather would play ball.
Needless to say, the weather had other thoughts. In Kent it would ain a little, in East Anglia it might be possible to flat that Ark you've been building.
It is some years, maybe three, since we last drive down to the factory, LFB, in Dover, and in the meantime the old hospital, the old town workhouse, has been knocked down and rebuilt. There are also old folk's flats too, all looking neat and tidy. Jools gets out at the main entrance at quarter to eight, and I make myself comfortable and set course north. I take the road through the hillsides, along narrow streets which also doubles as the only way to the factories for lotties. I could barely get the car down the car-lined streets, let alone a truck or bus.
From there I go past Gary's to River, then to the motorway along the Alkham Valley, traffic light and with daylight already abroad, I put the radio on to hear the Radio 6 DJ claim that Sid Vicious was one of the world's best bass guitarists. I know he could not play. Looked the part but was a drugged up bnasty zombie. So, I switch the radio off until Danny Baker was to come on at nine. Meaning I drove up the M20 in silence. Silent except for my swearing at other drivers, especially when the fog came down and people still did not put their lights on.
There is an accident on the on ramp to the M25, but I use my brain to find a way round, and am only delayed by a few minutes by the de tour, crossing into Essex and out into the daylight on the north bank at nine, so able to put the radio on as Danny baker comes on air. I cannot tell you how wonderful it is, that in such a screwed up and horrible world, that the BBC gives two hours of Saturday morning radio to Danny who gets people to phone in about the day;s topics, or last week's. Or whatever takes their fancy. This week's topics were:
1. Are Dreams Ever Any Use?
2. Art & Ornaments Your Parents Had
3. Extreme Reactions To Music
4. Ridiculous Ways To Get A Scar
5. Having To Lie About Your Age
6. You Still Have No Idea Who It Was
7. Things You Feel You Invented First
8. Notable Firework Nights
9. Peculiar & Unique School Trips
10. When All Alone In A Big City
Two hours rattle by, by which time not only am I through Essex and into Suffolk, but I am past Beccles and heading across the marshes to St Olaves.
I go to Mum's, via the corner shop, from which I buy a sandwich, sausage roll, milk shake and paprika flavour crisps. Never shop on an empty stomach!
Inside her house it is the usual; smell of stale smoke, still, although looking much tidier thanks t the work of Jools and Sheila. I have lunch, then with football on the radio, I begin doing an hour's tidying up, wrapping up mugs and glasses, packing them in boxes and stacking them in the bedroom. It might sound like moving a problem from one place to another, but it feels good to do something, even if it might be fruitless, and the cups and mugs can be taken back out again if she wanted.
At two fifteen, I lock the house up and take the stack of mail to deal with at home, and drive to the hospital. I walk up the stairs and make my way to Ward 2, cleaning my hands at each door. I look in each bay as I know she had been moved, but could not see her. Are you looking for someone asks a nurse? I am, but she tells me Mum was moved in the middle of the night to Ward 16 in the middle of the night, as she has contracted a virus, C. Diff.
I go downstairs to Ward 16, an isolation ward. And am told Mum is through two sets of doors, and make sure you wash you hands before and after you have seen her. I am told. Mum is alone, laying in bed in silence. I say silence, her stomach and digestion is making enough noise for us both. I am still bloody angry, and let rip at her. On her part she can't see what she has done wrong and tries to challenge my version of events, but I have better recall than her, and know we agreed to me coming up on Thursday morning. And then she got Sheila to do the same thing.
To say the atmosphere was cold was an understatement. I realise I could barely look at her, and she knew that. But I could not help it, after all what people have done for her, she thinks we are there just to do her bidding, like serfs to a Queen. Like Jools' Nan, really.
I stay an hour, then with there being nothing more to say I say goodbye, no goodbye kisses this time, due to health reasons. I leave, wash my hands and go to the car. The rain had just about stopped, and as I headed down the A143, my old friend, the skies began to clear, and pink sunshine, that colour due to the lateness of the hour, began to show.
At Diss I turn south down the A140 to Ipswich, then down the old road I know so well, the A12, past Colchester and Chelmsford to the M25, at which point the traffic stacked up, and I had to wait 20 minutes to inch to the roundabout. But from there it was plain sailing, or driving, as darkness fell, cruising to Thurrock and over the river into Kent.
Down the M20, driving at just sixty as the rain started to fall again, but on the radio, Craig Charles was ripping it up playing a Soul and Funk mix for three hours, making it a sheer pleasure to be able to listen to the tunes. I stop off at Burger King for dinner, then the last blast to Dover over the cliffs, down Townwall Street and home.
We eat and talk about our days.
Come nine, a wave of tiredness overwhelms me, and I say, time for bed, there are no arguments, off we go. Eight hours driving done.
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