The Midzed

The Sage was giving a talk on L0west0ft Ch1na in the town of the same name this morning, so we drove over fairly early, to allow us time to find the venue.  We both used to live there and knew it extremely well, but in the last 25 years they have done so much road building, and made so many streets one-way or cul de sacs that it can be quite tricky to find your way about.

As the club members started to arrive, we saw several people we knew from way back, which was an unexpected bonus.  Then a woman introduced herself to me and said that she had been the midwife when my daughter was born.  A few checkings of dates and I corrected her to son, which she queried (honestly, Ro, you’ve been a boy since day one), but I was so pleased to see her.

I wonder if I’ve described the day Ro was born?  I’ll have to look*.  Don’t worry, I don’t do gory details unless I’m having my hip bone removed.  Ooh, that reminds me, I’m having an operation before too long, I hope.  Not on my hip.  I’ll tell you about it in due course, no problems at all, quite trivial.

Anyway, I said that, although I hadn’t recognised her face, I did remember her and her colleague clearly because they were both so lovely and made the occasion such an unstressful one.  I said I was so glad that I’d had two midwives and not seen a doctor at all – doctors do think that childbirth is a medical matter when a straightforward birth is not really any such thing.

The Sage quite wanted me to stay and I felt rude in leaving – well, I suppose I was – but I had a very unsettled night, awake for 5 1/2 hours and catnapped either side, the room was not small exactly but rather boxy, with a lowish ceiling, no curtains or anything to absorb sound and a lot of chatter was going on, and I felt too hot and a bit claustrophobic, so I said I’d be back in an hour.

So I pottered around Low’stoft for a bit and bought cherries, Victoria plums (I doubt they were English, the crop has been poor this year and these were large and luscious) and the first Kent cobnuts of the season.  Woo-hoo!  I know plums and cobs mean autumn, but in a good way.

The success story of the summer, by the way, has been the new flowerbed by The Wall.  Thanks to the rain, I’ve hardly watered it at all and the chickens have largely kept the weeds at bay apart from nettles. I’m enjoying having flowers, having grown vegetables almost exclusively for a number of years, and I’m wondering if it’s worth the bother of growing many veggies next year when I’ve got such a good greengrocer in town.  This hasn’t been a good year of course, but I’ve lost heart anyway and don’t enjoy it any more.  I love having the flowers to look at out of my study window, though.  I must be getting soft in my old age.  Though slightly too soft in one way.  I weeded it thoroughly yesterday and, although I wore gloves (I rarely wear gardening gloves, I’m the down and dirty type), I had a lot of nettle stings.  Anthisan cream doesn’t work on nettle stings, by the way.  I’m still a bit tingly.

*I looked.  Of course I did!

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