Listen to the wind blow, watch the sun rise

Have you noticed that life, by its very nature, is linear.  There are some that say that it's more 'wibbley-wobbley' than that - But those people are often certifiable and you should shun them.   

But life, for the vast majority of us, bimbles from one thing to another like a heavily pregnant hamster, banging into things and generally biting jagged chunks out of the furniture with rodenty abandon.  You can look backwards sometimes and think "That was lucky" if... Erm... if you're lucky, but ninety-nine times out of a hundred, it's pretty much 'Yesterday I went to the shops.', 'Today my dog stole all the Camembert out of my artisanally made and ethically sourced sourdough sandwich.'

But there are a few times, a few beautiful gems hidden amongst the razor-edged broken glass strewn highway of my daily life that shine like the very lighthouse of home port to an overworked and mimsy-hungry seaman (easy now)

Here is one such relatable saga, it ends the day before yesterday... But it started some weeks ago, during a bout of Norovirus-induced generic stomach-flu like illness. I had it for a week and I didn't eat during that entire time - I drank weak orange squash made with boiled water. I tried to eat a boiled sweet once, but that triggered a bout of 'stomach upset' that would have caused a Haddock to embrace Buddhism. It was awful - I lost a stone in weight (you need to remember this, it's important later on).

Another thing you need to bear in mind is that it's not my payday until next Friday... Very important, almost as important as the previous fact, in fact.

Ok, so knowing these facts, we can fast-forward to last week. The Dandymobile, my faultless steed, my surreptitious breeder of Marmosets, has a 'tell' to let you know that her battery will require replacement in the near future.  It's a buzzing noise that happens between turning on the ignition and starting the engine, something like a pump, or a fan under the bonnet somewhere probably, I know not what it is - This is where the more mechanically minded of my loyal readership should feel free to jump in with suggestions as to what this might be, and how they would like to mend it for me for free. But, for the time being, we should just agree that this is a 'thing' with a purpose - It's purpose in this case is to remind me to buy a new battery in the near future.  I had planned to buy a battery once I had been paid. I think you can follow my reasoning, right?

On Saturday I drove the Current Mrs. Dandy to the Post-Office to claim a package that required a signature, or was too wide for the letterbox or some-such tomfoolery.  Upon our return to the car, it refused to start, I figured that I'd touched one of the footpedals during the starting procedure (this sometimes causes the car to refuse to start for half an hour or so if the battery is in bad shape) so I walked the 500 yards to the nearest branch of a popular tyre and battery replacement company that are known for being 'Quite expensive'. They very cheerfully said that they would be more than happy to replace my battery for £100. (remember, it's not payday until next week and I still need to buy food and fuel).  I tried the motor factors across the road (the same motor factors as detailed in this story) and they quote me £70 just to supply the battery.  So, I figured that I'd go back to the car, wait for it to successfully start and drive it to get its battery replaced.

But it didn't start, not even after I'd waited for another hour... 

I'd suggested to Mrs Dandy that she get the bus home, as she had things to do, and that I would get the Dandymobile sorted 'somehow' on my own. She left and I sat there and thought, and thought, and thought. My first thought was that the car would magically just start if I closed my eyes and turned the key whilst asking it nicely... It didn't.  Then I thought that the only thing for it was to push the car, on my own, the 500 yards to get the battery replaced. But then I remembered that I would need both hands to push the Dandymobile - and, (this is where your memory gets tested) I realised that that would be problematic because I needed one hand to hold my trousers up - Remember that sickness bug and all the weight I lost? - Well, my belt was on the last hole and I couldn't get it tight enough to stop my trousers falling down whilst I was pushing the car... I was going to buy a new, smaller, belt once I'd been paid. This issue was compounded because, as you all know, I don't wear underwear of any kind, ever. Not even when I'm kilted.

So, my third and final thought was to phone the garage that normally does my MOTs and suchlike, to get them to recover me and replace the battery. So I called them and spoke to the owner, who's a great guy, and explained my problem. He said that the recovery truck was out currently, but I'd be their next call as I was such a good customer.  We've heard of this garage before too... It's where THE QUATTRO is usually tethered.

It was an hour before the truck arrived and on its arrival, the recovery driver suggested that he should use his special clip-on battery thing to see if he could scare the Dandymobile into life.  But it didn't work, so then he offered to bump her around the corner using the starter motor (you know how a car lurches forward if you start it in gear? that.) and winch her onto the back of the truck. The car jumped forward a couple of feet every time he turned the key and on the second such attempt, the engine started as if nothing had been wrong in the first place.

"I don't understand what happened there," He said. Well, I say 'he said' - he kind of buzzed, because he had some sort of electrolarynx because my life is on average 500% weirder in most ways than yours. Then he asked me if I'd like him to follow me to the garage just in case. but I said no, and that he was very kind, but as the Dandymobile started, she should be OK now. In hindsight, that strikes even me as foolish bravado now.

However, I drove to the garage without incident, parked up and turned off the ignition without thinking.  The owner was standing in the open doorway of the workshop and favoured me with a sliding facepalm with added headshaking finish, such as one you would give to an Ice-dancer who had performed a routine worthy of six perfect 10.0s before setting his tights on fire as a protest of some kind and sinking through the surface of the rink without a trace.

I opened the bonnet, and he looked at the battery. A confused scowl crossed his face... "Is this one of ours?" he asked. 

"Of course, you exclusively do all the work on all my cars." I lied in reply. He held up his index finger to silence my tirade of falsehood and rang his battery supplier.

"Well, it seems you're in luck - The battery is still just under warranty, so we'll replace it free of charge for you.  All I'd ask is that you make a cash donation to the 'We helped you out of a tight spot, so I'll contribute towards the cost of your Christmas Party benevolent fund.'" - So I gave him the cash I'd got out to pay the driver for recovering me. and an hour later, I was on my way.

Effectively, I saved a potload of money, the week before payday, because I'd been sick as a dog weeks earlier, and that meant I couldn't push my car to the garage for fear of my trousers falling down...

What are the chances?



Well, with me, probably 50/50 as it goes.

Priorities

OK, so I'm guessing that most of you know of my Dad, be it through his shenanigans where sub-zero avian vermin are concerned, or his stories of life as a Sergeant in the RAF.

He's incredibly self-sufficient, not just for an 84 year old, but in general.  He does all of his own shopping and cleaning, goes everywhere on the bus and seldom asks anyone (especially his family) for help.  In fact, he even 'does' for an old friend of his, a bit of light housework, sorting out paperwork, making sure that his kids don't steal all of his money, that sort of thing

Anyway, he checked himself into hospital last week with stomach pains, all sorts of unpleasant things going on with his digestive system and so forth, but his GP had told him that he just had an infection that was being a bit resistant to anti-biotics or something, probably.

He spent a week in there, being poked and prodded, pumped full of hardcore antibiotics, shoved into giant magnetic doughnuts and having cameras put in places where you normally wouldn't want a camera.

when we went to pick him up, he told us that his consultant had said that was an issue with one of his 'tubes' and they'd be having him back in when everything had calmed down a bit to do something about it.

It wasn't until the next day when he pulled an 'Agent Tee' (Go and watch Men in Black 2) on us, and waited until we were in a busy shopping centre before he told us the rest of the diagnosis... He was in the late, inoperable, stages of Cancer and his Consultant had given him 3-12 months to live.

Then he just carried on walking to the Post Office as if he hadn't just dropped the 'C-Bomb'.

Anyone who knows me in real life will attest to the fact that it's not very often that I'm rendered speechless, but on this occasion, I did not know what to say... So I told him that I didn't know what to say.  He replied that there wasn't really anything that I could say that would make any difference, so why bother?  Mrs Dandy took this opportunity to disappear off to the Vets, initially to pick some stuff up for the dog, but mainly so my Dad didn't see her burst into tears - He's a man of that generation where overt displays of emotion embarrass him greatly.

We walked for a while, in silence, until I broke the tension by asking if there was anything they could do, he shook his head.  I asked about Chemo, he reminded that Chemo was still technically 'something' and he'd already told me that there was 'nothing' that could be done.

After we'd driven him back home, we sat with him for a couple of hours, whilst he stared at the TV.   I can honestly say that this was the first time I'd ever noticed how fragile he was.  He'd never been a big guy, never topped 5'9" or been particularly muscular - But he's my Dad, so by that virtue a dyed in the wool Superhero, his power was never to leap buildings in a single bound, he was always clever enough to find a way round.  He couldn't fly, but he did tell some stories about when he used to.  His one superpower was to be unerringly right about almost everything.

He would say things that started with 'If I were you...' and 'You know, if you do that...' and invariably ended with me ignoring him, making a hash of everything and asking to borrow more money.  He warned me about women who were destined to tear my heart out, credit cards that would put me into debt and houses that would drain my very soul - I ignored them all. I'll bet you can count how many World's Greatest Son mugs I have in the cupboard on the fingers of one foot.

(Although, I don't think my Brother has any of those either, and he's taken early retirement and is living in his hollow volcano lair in the middle of the Mediterranean - He gets up every morning and can see the sea, and an honest to goodness shipwreck out of his lounge window - I think my Dad might have impossibly high standards for what classes as a good, successful, Son.)

I told him that I'd come and visit him every other day or so, to make sure he was OK and check if he needed anything.  I mean, we only live around the corner when all's said and done, so it's not much of a stretch... And Mrs Dandy's going to do his housework and shopping.   and that makes me feel... Well, guilty if I'm honest.  He's 84, shouldn't I have been doing these things for him for a long time?

I mean, I've been thinking that he's not been long for this world for years, his memory's not what it was, his trips to the Doctor are getting more frequent and more serious, and every time I go to his house when he's not answered his phone a couple of times in a row during the day, I expect to find him cold and stiff in a heap at the bottom of his stairs, or dead in his bed.  But he never has been.

Not so far at least.

So, on reflection, I'm a terrible son, a financial and emotional burden, thoughtless, non-empathic and generally a bad sort.  Except, I'm kind of not... I have offered to help innumerable times in the past, he just looks at me askance and says 'Why? I'm perfectly capable of doing it myself.' - So many times that I stopped asking in fact. I let him ask me if he needs anything - It's usually something like 'I need a big bag of compost' or 'I want to go to PC World, but there isn't a bus that goes that way.' - Nothing too taxing, it's usually the donkey-work that he trusts me with, things that I would have to try really hard to mess up.

But he's my Dad, and doing stuff for my Dad makes me feel good - Feels like I'm paying him back for me being a bit of a disappointment.

I regularly fix his computer, buy him tinned peaches (he loves tinned peaches, they remind him of when rationing first finished I think) and provide him with Grandchildren.  But I still feel guilty, not about not doing more, but for waiting until it was confirmed that he had a terminal condition before thinking about doing it.

I've told some people (I suppose technically, I've now told quite a lot of people, what with Blogging it) and most of their reactions have been similar, you get the 'Oh, I'm really sorry!' and the 'Is there anything I can do?' - And these people are great friends and good people and they mean well and there's nothing else you can really say... But it still take all my strength not to sound all glib and answer 'Why? it wasn't your fault.' and 'Yeah, just nip back in time about a year and give me a poke so I can tell him to go to an Oncologist so he doesn't die.' - I'm practicing my 'Thank you, but no.' - But it's going to take a while I'm afraid.

(If I do see you in real life and I do say any of these things, feel free to just shake your head and walk off, whilst muttering 'Wank*r' under your breath.)

Whilst we're on the subject of reactions, my Brother initially felt guilt too, must be a family thing - He was guilty about not immediately spending however many hundreds of pounds jumping on a plane and turfing up at our Father's house only to be told by a little frail old man what a bloody idiotic waste of money it's all been, he should have waited until there was a machine that went 'Beep' involved. (He is, nonetheless, paying hundreds of pounds on a plane ticket and coming over anyway - He's just sensibly waiting until the prices go down next month... Dad will actually appreciate that, he'll be proud - We're an odd family when you get down to it.)

Mrs Dandy was pretty devastated, but has now clicked into super-efficient carer mode, doing everything possible to make life easy for him.  Especially if that means shouting at him for his own good when he fails to take sufficient care of himself in the few times a day that she's not there. Technically known as 'trying to keep busy so she doesn't think about it.' I think.

The Mini-Dandy cried, a lot - but now she does a fine job of masking her emotions so that she doesn't make anyone else feel sad... Which reminds me, I must have the 'Bottling up your emotions can make your mind snap.' Conversation with her this weekend - I guess that she's learned it from me, I'm not an obviously emotional person ('cos I'm dead hard Me...) and things usually don't hit me until everything's all over, you know, when I consider that I've got time to grieve without effecting anyone else - Yeah, because that situation happens all the time.  I guess that being your Father's Daughter isn't just trifle and pony-rides all the time.

The Micro-Dandy... I didn't get to see his reaction, because the wife told him whilst I was at work, because I didn't seem to be able to bring myself to do it.  The words that he said that were the important thing though I suppose.

'Oh... Is Dad alright, because Granddad is Dad's Dad isn't he?'

Stunned me a bit when I found out about that one, with him only being eight years old and everything.

My Dad himself... Well, I think he's doing the whole 'Stiff upper lip' thing, trying to convince us that he's jumped to the 'Acceptance' phase of the Kubler-Ross model (Yeah, you're right, there should be an umlaut over the 'u' there, but I really can't be bothered) Though I don't believe it for a second.

Every time I leave him I imagine that he goes and sits back down in his armchair and bursts into tears - I know that I probably would, but I'm not my Dad... He probably just wanders into the bathroom and shaves himself with a Bowie knife which he licks the foam off and then spits it at the dog, because that's the sort of thing that Dads do.  That's the sort of thing that my Dad does at least.

At least, he does in my head, because he's a Superhero.

My Superhero

So,  that's why I said that the Blog might get a bit sporadic from now on... Not because I can't think of anything funny, although I'll admit that it is a bit more difficult at the moment.  But because I really need to finish the book and get it published before...

Well, you know what I want to do it before...

I want him to be proud of me one last time.