Paul Carter's Blog, page 3

Sunday Quiz by Dr Paul Carter MD Author

Quiz
 by
Dr Paul Carter MD

 

On cup day morning, Gilly, Nel and I sat on the back deck overlooking the creek, under the shade of an umbrella, and had a leisurely breakfast. We had toast and home-made marmalade and Nel had some chicken necks. It was a perfect morning, the temperature was just so, there was not a breath of wind, and the sky was an arc of uninterrupted blue. When she had finished eating, Gilly rocked back in her seat and started the crossword in the morning’s paper. With nothing particularly on my agenda, for once, I just sat there sipping my tea and looking at her. Gilly is a strikingly good-looking woman at any time, but in that morning light she looked especially beautiful, so I reached over and started to stroke her hair.

She finished filling in 19 Down and then looked up and asked me to stop mussing her hair about. ‘Why don’t I find you something to keep you out of mischief,’ she said, and then handed me the quiz from the paper. I have always fancied myself as a well-educated man of the world who knows a thing or two about it all, so I happily accepted the challenge.

‘How did you go?’ Gilly asked a little later as she completed her crossword.

The quiz had been a good deal harder than I had expected, and I was thinking of a suitable answer when Gilly grabbed the paper off me. ‘Twenty-five questions,’ she read. ‘So, did you get them all?’

‘Not quite,’ I replied.

‘A half? A quarter? Less than that?’ she laughed.

‘I wasn’t keeping score,’ I said quietly, but Gilly wanted an exact number, once again, I thought, failing to recognise that sometimes it can be  better to just let things go.

‘Three,’ I said quietly, and Gilly nearly swallowed her coffee down the wrong way.

‘Not exactly a high distinction performance,’ Nel piped up.

‘Oi, less of that from you,’ I said to her. ‘It’s better than anything you could do.’

Nel sat up and looked at me. ‘Try me,’ she said.

‘This is ridiculous,’ I mumbled to myself as I scanned down the list of questions in front of me. ‘Okay, what’s the state capitol of Florida.’

‘Tallahassee,’ she replied without hesitation to my complete amazement.

‘How on earth did you know that?’ I asked, but apparently it was her mother’s kennel name and she had always remembered it.

‘That was a fluke,’ I said, looking at the questions again. ‘Right, smarty pants, what is  a pendecagon?’

Again the answer came back like an Exocet missile. It seemed that was how many pups there had been in her litter.

I drummed my fingers on the table and  went back to my list for the third time. ‘Well, I bet you don’t know what aphantasia is.’

‘That’s the easiest question yet,’ she replied with that silly grin of hers where she gets her lip caught up on her teeth. ‘You’ve seen me running in my dreams. That means I don’t have it.’

‘Got any more questions for her?’ Gilly asked as she cleaned the last of the coffee off her top. I was going to say something really clever to put the pair of them back in their places, but I didn’t bother because they were both cackling so loudly that they wouldn’t have heard a word I said anyway.

 

Sunday Quiz

Quiz

 by Author Paul Carter MD

 

On cup day morning, Gilly, Nel and I sat on the back deck overlooking the creek, under the shade of an umbrella, and had a leisurely breakfast. We had toast and home-made marmalade and Nel had some chicken necks. It was a perfect morning, the temperature was just so, there was not a breath of wind, and the sky was an arc of uninterrupted blue. When she had finished eating, Gilly rocked back in her seat and started the crossword in the morning’s paper. With nothing particularly on my agenda, for once, I just sat there sipping my tea and looking at her. Gilly is a strikingly good-looking woman at any time, but in that morning light she looked especially beautiful, so I reached over and started to stroke her hair.

She finished filling in 19 Down and then looked up and asked me to stop mussing her hair about. ‘Why don’t I find you something to keep you out of mischief,’ she said, and then handed me the quiz from the paper. I have always fancied myself as a well-educated man of the world who knows a thing or two about it all, so I happily accepted the challenge.

‘How did you go?’ Gilly asked a little later as she completed her crossword.

The quiz had been a good deal harder than I had expected, and I was thinking of a suitable answer when Gilly grabbed the paper off me. ‘Twenty-five questions,’ she read. ‘So, did you get them all?’

‘Not quite,’ I replied.

‘A half? A quarter? Less than that?’ she laughed.

‘I wasn’t keeping score,’ I said quietly, but Gilly wanted an exact number, once again, I thought, failing to recognise that sometimes it can be  better to just let things go.

‘Three,’ I said quietly, and Gilly nearly swallowed her coffee down the wrong way.

‘Not exactly a high distinction performance,’ Nel piped up.

‘Oi, less of that from you,’ I said to her. ‘It’s better than anything you could do.’

Nel sat up and looked at me. ‘Try me,’ she said.

‘This is ridiculous,’ I mumbled to myself as I scanned down the list of questions in front of me. ‘Okay, what’s the state capitol of Florida.’

‘Tallahassee,’ she replied without hesitation to my complete amazement.

‘How on earth did you know that?’ I asked, but apparently it was her mother’s kennel name and she had always remembered it.

‘That was a fluke,’ I said, looking at the questions again. ‘Right, smarty pants, what is  a pendecagon?’

Again the answer came back like an Exocet missile. It seemed that was how many pups there had been in her litter.

I drummed my fingers on the table and  went back to my list for the third time. ‘Well, I bet you don’t know what aphantasia is.’

‘That’s the easiest question yet,’ she replied with that silly grin of hers where she gets her lip caught up on her teeth. ‘You’ve seen me running in my dreams. That means I don’t have it.’

‘Got any more questions for her?’ Gilly asked as she cleaned the last of the coffee off her top. I was going to say something really clever to put the pair of them back in their places, but I didn’t bother because they were both cackling so loudly that they wouldn’t have heard a word I said anyway.

 

Quiz by Author Paul Carter MD

Quiz

 by Author Paul Carter MD

 

On cup day morning, Gilly, Nel and I sat on the back deck overlooking the creek, under the shade of an umbrella, and had a leisurely breakfast. We had toast and home-made marmalade and Nel had some chicken necks. It was a perfect morning, the temperature was just so, there was not a breath of wind, and the sky was an arc of uninterrupted blue. When she had finished eating, Gilly rocked back in her seat and started the crossword in the morning’s paper. With nothing particularly on my agenda, for once, I just sat there sipping my tea and looking at her. Gilly is a strikingly good-looking woman at any time, but in that morning light she looked especially beautiful, so I reached over and started to stroke her hair.

She finished filling in 19 Down and then looked up and asked me to stop mussing her hair about. ‘Why don’t I find you something to keep you out of mischief,’ she said, and then handed me the quiz from the paper. I have always fancied myself as a well-educated man of the world who knows a thing or two about it all, so I happily accepted the challenge.

‘How did you go?’ Gilly asked a little later as she completed her crossword.

The quiz had been a good deal harder than I had expected, and I was thinking of a suitable answer when Gilly grabbed the paper off me. ‘Twenty-five questions,’ she read. ‘So, did you get them all?’

‘Not quite,’ I replied.

‘A half? A quarter? Less than that?’ she laughed.

‘I wasn’t keeping score,’ I said quietly, but Gilly wanted an exact number, once again, I thought, failing to recognise that sometimes it can be  better to just let things go.

‘Three,’ I said quietly, and Gilly nearly swallowed her coffee down the wrong way.

‘Not exactly a high distinction performance,’ Nel piped up.

‘Oi, less of that from you,’ I said to her. ‘It’s better than anything you could do.’

Nel sat up and looked at me. ‘Try me,’ she said.

‘This is ridiculous,’ I mumbled to myself as I scanned down the list of questions in front of me. ‘Okay, what’s the state capitol of Florida.’

‘Tallahassee,’ she replied without hesitation to my complete amazement.

‘How on earth did you know that?’ I asked, but apparently it was her mother’s kennel name and she had always remembered it.

‘That was a fluke,’ I said, looking at the questions again. ‘Right, smarty pants, what is  a pendecagon?’

Again the answer came back like an Exocet missile. It seemed that was how many pups there had been in her litter.

I drummed my fingers on the table and  went back to my list for the third time. ‘Well, I bet you don’t know what aphantasia is.’

‘That’s the easiest question yet,’ she replied with that silly grin of hers where she gets her lip caught up on her teeth. ‘You’ve seen me running in my dreams. That means I don’t have it.’

‘Got any more questions for her?’ Gilly asked as she cleaned the last of the coffee off her top. I was going to say something really clever to put the pair of them back in their places, but I didn’t bother because they were both cackling so loudly that they wouldn’t have heard a word I said anyway.

 

Prince Rupert by Paul Carter Author MD

 

by Paul Carter Author

 

Yesterday I had a meeting with Arabella, the frighteningly clever lady who looks after the paperwork connected with all those end of life things for me. The meeting was about documenting who gets what when I finally hand in my dinner pail. It was a zoom meeting in my study. I was going to swank on about how, these days, I am really good at zooming, but then I realised that everyone is doing it now, so I won’t bother.

I really like the study in my new house, for I am surrounded by loads of books as well as all those bits and pieces I have been handed down by my forebears. Also, the view from my desk, overlooking the front lawn, is both beautiful and private. Another thing I particularly like about the room is that, on the wall above the fireplace,  Prince Rupert of Hentzau, the red deer stag who caused me many months of heartburn between escaping from the farm, and being finally caught again, has found a final resting place.

As we started our meeting, Arabella looked at me and started to snigger.

‘Sorry, have I said something funny?” I asked, ‘Something Shelley Berman?’

‘No, no, not at all,’ she replied, straightening her face, ‘It’s just that the Covid lockdown has obviously done wonders for you,’ she continued and then burst out laughing.

I am rather sensitive about my waist-line and I immediately drew it in as far as I could. ‘I think many people have found the Covid lockdown paddock to be a good one,’ I replied defensively and tried to hide my tummy behind my desk.

‘You’re right, I’m sorry,’ she said, putting her hand in front of her face. ‘Its just that the unusual effect which the pandemic has had on you took me by surprise. I think I’ll be okay now,’ she continued but I could see that she was still biting her lip.

‘I’ve got some soot on my face, or something green on a tooth, haven’t I?’ I said, but she shook her head and then very consciously looked down at the papers in front of her. ‘In which case I haven’t the faintest idea what you are talking about,’ I added.

With only a few more outbursts of chuckling whenever she looked up, and I might add that this was from a  person for whose undivided attention  I was paying a fortune,  we eventually settled down to business and worked our way down the agenda. By the time we had finished, Arabella had  pencilled in the recipient of  the stamp collection, the wood chisels, all my old paintbrushes, and the badminton set.

‘Okay, well I think that wraps it up,’ I said.

‘I think so too,’ Arabella agreed, and leant forward to her screen, with yet another smirk on her face, and seemed to push a button. She then waved goodbye and signed herself off. She got her timing slightly wrong however, and I could see that she had thrown her head back like a hyena, and was cackling like a cockatoo before she disappeared from the screen.

‘I had a very odd zoom with Arabella today,’ I said to Gilly over tea a little later. ‘She laughed the whole way through.’

‘That’s odd,’ Gilly  replied. ‘She’s normally so professional.’

‘I know,’ I agreed and then my phone pinged, and Arabella sent me a picture of our meeting and I have decided not to do any zooms from my desk any more.

.

Prince Rupert

 

by Paul Carter Author

 

Yesterday I had a meeting with Arabella, the frighteningly clever lady who looks after the paperwork connected with all those end of life things for me. The meeting was about documenting who gets what when I finally hand in my dinner pail. It was a zoom meeting in my study. I was going to swank on about how, these days, I am really good at zooming, but then I realised that everyone is doing it now, so I won’t bother.

I really like the study in my new house, for I am surrounded by loads of books as well as all those bits and pieces I have been handed down by my forebears. Also, the view from my desk, overlooking the front lawn, is both beautiful and private. Another thing I particularly like about the room is that, on the wall above the fireplace,  Prince Rupert of Hentzau, the red deer stag who caused me many months of heartburn between escaping from the farm, and being finally caught again, has found a final resting place.

As we started our meeting, Arabella looked at me and started to snigger.

‘Sorry, have I said something funny?” I asked, ‘Something Shelley Berman?’

‘No, no, not at all,’ she replied, straightening her face, ‘It’s just that the Covid lockdown has obviously done wonders for you,’ she continued and then burst out laughing.

I am rather sensitive about my waist-line and I immediately drew it in as far as I could. ‘I think many people have found the Covid lockdown paddock to be a good one,’ I replied defensively and tried to hide my tummy behind my desk.

‘You’re right, I’m sorry,’ she said, putting her hand in front of her face. ‘Its just that the unusual effect which the pandemic has had on you took me by surprise. I think I’ll be okay now,’ she continued but I could see that she was still biting her lip.

‘I’ve got some soot on my face, or something green on a tooth, haven’t I?’ I said, but she shook her head and then very consciously looked down at the papers in front of her. ‘In which case I haven’t the faintest idea what you are talking about,’ I added.

With only a few more outbursts of chuckling whenever she looked up, and I might add that this was from a  person for whose undivided attention  I was paying a fortune,  we eventually settled down to business and worked our way down the agenda. By the time we had finished, Arabella had  pencilled in the recipient of  the stamp collection, the wood chisels, all my old paintbrushes, and the badminton set.

‘Okay, well I think that wraps it up,’ I said.

‘I think so too,’ Arabella agreed, and leant forward to her screen, with yet another smirk on her face, and seemed to push a button. She then waved goodbye and signed herself off. She got her timing slightly wrong however, and I could see that she had thrown her head back like a hyena, and was cackling like a cockatoo before she disappeared from the screen.

‘I had a very odd zoom with Arabella today,’ I said to Gilly over tea a little later. ‘She laughed the whole way through.’

‘That’s odd,’ Gilly  replied. ‘She’s normally so professional.’

‘I know,’ I agreed and then my phone pinged, and Arabella sent me a picture of our meeting and I have decided not to do any zooms from my desk any more.

.

Prince Rupert by Paul Carter Author

 

by Paul Carter Author

 

Yesterday I had a meeting with Arabella, the frighteningly clever lady who looks after the paperwork connected with all those end of life things for me. The meeting was about documenting who gets what when I finally hand in my dinner pail. It was a zoom meeting in my study. I was going to swank on about how, these days, I am really good at zooming, but then I realised that everyone is doing it now, so I won’t bother.

I really like the study in my new house, for I am surrounded by loads of books as well as all those bits and pieces I have been handed down by my forebears. Also, the view from my desk, overlooking the front lawn, is both beautiful and private. Another thing I particularly like about the room is that, on the wall above the fireplace,  Prince Rupert of Hentzau, the red deer stag who caused me many months of heartburn between escaping from the farm, and being finally caught again, has found a final resting place.

As we started our meeting, Arabella looked at me and started to snigger.

‘Sorry, have I said something funny?” I asked, ‘Something Shelley Berman?’

‘No, no, not at all,’ she replied, straightening her face, ‘It’s just that the Covid lockdown has obviously done wonders for you,’ she continued and then burst out laughing.

I am rather sensitive about my waist-line and I immediately drew it in as far as I could. ‘I think many people have found the Covid lockdown paddock to be a good one,’ I replied defensively and tried to hide my tummy behind my desk.

‘You’re right, I’m sorry,’ she said, putting her hand in front of her face. ‘Its just that the unusual effect which the pandemic has had on you took me by surprise. I think I’ll be okay now,’ she continued but I could see that she was still biting her lip.

‘I’ve got some soot on my face, or something green on a tooth, haven’t I?’ I said, but she shook her head and then very consciously looked down at the papers in front of her. ‘In which case I haven’t the faintest idea what you are talking about,’ I added.

With only a few more outbursts of chuckling whenever she looked up, and I might add that this was from a  person for whose undivided attention  I was paying a fortune,  we eventually settled down to business and worked our way down the agenda. By the time we had finished, Arabella had  pencilled in the recipient of  the stamp collection, the wood chisels, all my old paintbrushes, and the badminton set.

‘Okay, well I think that wraps it up,’ I said.

‘I think so too,’ Arabella agreed, and leant forward to her screen, with yet another smirk on her face, and seemed to push a button. She then waved goodbye and signed herself off. She got her timing slightly wrong however, and I could see that she had thrown her head back like a hyena, and was cackling like a cockatoo before she disappeared from the screen.

‘I had a very odd zoom with Arabella today,’ I said to Gilly over tea a little later. ‘She laughed the whole way through.’

‘That’s odd,’ Gilly  replied. ‘She’s normally so professional.’

‘I know,’ I agreed and then my phone pinged, and Arabella sent me a picture of our meeting and I have decided not to do any zooms from my desk any more.

.

Canard a L’Orange by Dr Paul Carter

by Dr Paul Carter

Last week Gilly had to go to Melbourne for a check on her broken arm. She decided that she would drive herself down and stay in town overnight, so that she didn’t have to also do the return trip in the one day. Left to our own devices for the evening, and both of us feeling a bit peckish, the dog and I poked about in the fridge, looking for something to eat. I was pulling some chicken necks out of the freezer compartment for her when I came across a duck which Gilly has clearly forgotten about. Excited by my find, I decided on the spot that, just for once, I would try my hand at actually cooking a meal for myself rather than simply warming something up. So I phoned up a friend of mine, Gordon Blue, who fancies himself as a bit of a whizz in the kitchen. By lucky chance he was at home.

‘What’s a really good duck dish?’ I asked him.

‘Canard a l’orange,’ he replied without hesitation.

‘And how would I cook that?’ I inquired.

‘You probably wouldn’t,’ he chuckled in what I thought was rather a condescending manner, but he did then go on to tell me how he would make it. It all sounded a bit complicated, but I wrote everything down and decided to give it a go anyway.

I found the vinegar, sugar, and onions in the pantry, the carrots and celery in the fridge, and an orange in the fruit bowl. Then, to my surprise, I also found, well at least according to the pictures on my phone, coriander, cumin, thyme, marjoram, and parsley in the garden.

Back in the kitchen, and humming ‘Je ne regrette rien’ to myself, I hit my straps. I got out a skillet and basting dish, and adjusted the temperature of the oven until it was just so. I then rendered the duck, julienned the vegetables, zested and squeezed the orange, made some stock, caramelised the sugar, manied the buerre, thickened the sauce, and from time to time inserted a thermometer into the duck’s thigh, being very careful not to touch the bone.

After a bit I quite got into the swing of it. I put ‘French Café’ on Spotify, and decided that I have no idea why everyone goes on about how difficult this cooking lark is. It all turned out really well and in less than three hours I was finished. I set my meal out nicely on a tray, took it through to the TV room and settled in for a late-night Netflix binge.

The only mild disappointment in the whole process being that when I did eventually look down at my meal, I was surprised to see how similar the final product looked to a dish I remember having had in the past.

Malt by Writer Paul Carter MD

by Writer Paul Carter MD

I may have mentioned once or twice that, at the end of a day, I enjoy sitting back with a wee dram of liquid sunshine from Scotland. Say what you like about kilts and bagpipes, the Scots certainly hit the bullseye with their national drink. Most of the time I imbibe whatever Coles has on special, mixed with ice and ginger ale. 

Occasionally, however, I enjoy something really special, with a Gaelic name and just a drop or two of water added from a pipette to ‘open’ up the flavour. Which is why, on a holiday in Tasmania some years ago, we stopped off for a tasting at a whisky distillery which we stumbled across on a back road off another back road from nowhere special to somewhere even less well known. It was a great place. They had a spectacular range of single malt whiskies, and one of them particularly tickled my fancy.

‘How about I treat you to that one you particularly like as an early birthday present,’ Gilly had smiled at me and said, and I had readily accepted.

The lady behind the counter carefully wrapped the bottle up in straw and put it in a small wooden box. ‘That will be four hundred and twenty-five dollars,’ she said with a smile and, to her everlasting credit, Gilly neither blinked nor flinched.

Clearly, whisky that costs over four hundred dollars a bottle is not used to quaff the thirst. Nor is it mixed with anything or iced, so I did none of those things. What I did instead, over the next year or two, was to take tiny sips of it and then eulogise about how, just like listening to opera, it transported me to other worlds, and made tingles go up and down my spine. 

But even with taking the tiniest of sips, all good things come to an end and eventually, the bottle was empty. I was feeling a bit sad about it all when suddenly it was full again. Thinking the bottle way too good to discard, that clever wife of mine had gone to the supermarket, got a litre of whatever was the best buy of the week and had filled it up again. It was a brilliant idea and one that we have now repeated over and over. So that I can sip, or quaff, or mix, or chill as the mood takes me, without ever once feeling guilty.

Now that Covid has released its grip on us a little, we had a couple of our new neighbours over recently for dinner. They are both something high-powered in the city, but now working from home. When we had made our introductions, I asked everyone what they would like as a pre-dinner tipple. It turned out that both our guests are whisky people, so I brought out our well-used bottle, and poured everyone a drink. I was on the very point of explaining about our little joke when the husband cut across me. 

‘Now that is fantastic,’ he said as he sipped from his glass, and then picked up the bottle and closely examined the label. ‘It’s not just the taste, with that wonderful hint of blackberry, or even that smooth as silk texture,’ he continued, ‘but you can almost feel the pureness of the stream they have used, and then there’s that depth and richness from being  matured in a barrel previously used for sherry.’

I looked at him wide-eyed and was about to fess up when I glanced across to Gilly. For just a second she looked back at me with a completely expressionless face and then she puckered her brow, ever so slightly, and seemingly casually put a finger to her lips.

‘Well, we certainly like it,’ I turned back to our guest and said. ‘In fact, we like it so much that we would have to find our way back there if ever our supplies started to run low,’ I added, and Gilly suddenly got up and left the room, saying that she had just remembered something she had to see to in the kitchen.

Footsteps by Paul Carter MD

by Paul Carter MD

 

I promised myself that, when the time was right, I would take my dear old mum back to England and sprinkle her next to my brother. Unfortunately, Covid got in the way, so when we left the farm, we took her with us to the new house instead. She is on a shelf in the cellar, next to some old photo albums.

There are new people living in her old house on the farm now, and it was about the time that the trip back to the old country got scrapped that they started complaining. All night long apparently, they were hearing footsteps up and down their passageway. 

‘You’ve got to do something about it,’ they pleaded. ‘We can’t get a wink of sleep. Your mum is driving  us barmy.’ 

‘My mum!’ I exclaimed. ‘It’ll be rats for sure.’

‘So how do you explain the cupboard doors being opened and closed, and everything in the kitchen being moved about then?’ they asked. ‘She’s just annoyed you haven’t taken her back to England. Bring her back here for a bit and let her settle down.’

I didn’t believe a word of it,  but they looked at me through pale faces with large dark rings under their eyes so, just to humour them, I took my mum back over to her old house, and put her on the mantlepiece. 

‘Brilliant!’ they beamed a couple of weeks later when I went over to pick her up again. ‘It worked like a charm. Told you it would.’ 

Unfortunately, although things at the farm stayed fine, it was now Gilly and myself who started hearing footsteps every night. They woke us up, and spooked the bejeezus out of the dog so that she would jump on the bed between us, and shake until her teeth rattled.

‘It’ll be rats,’ I would repeat in response to Gill’s enquiries.

‘Do rats usually make dogs do that?’ Gilly would then ask. ‘Perhaps the folk at the farm were on the right track.’

‘Rubbish,’ I would snort.

At three o’clock the next morning, Gilly dug me in the ribs.

 ‘Your mum’s at it again,’ she giggled. ‘I can hear footsteps across the ceiling,’ and she was quite right.

‘Rats,’ I stuck to my diagnosis as I turned over to go back to sleep. ‘It’ll be rats.’

‘Well they’ve got bloody big feet then is all I can say,’ Gilly replied.

The next day, I climbed up into the roof space and scattered an entire bag of bait by throwing it all in every direction. The following evening, as we’re watching TV there was suddenly a huge commotion above our heads. It went on for ages and when it finished, we had to pull the dog out from under the coffee table and comfort her. 

‘The bait obviously worked well then,’ I said to Gilly with a nod of my head.

The next day I went up into the roof again, fully expecting to find small furry mammals lying on their backs with their little legs in the air, but I drew a blank. 

‘You probably didn’t look properly,’ Gilly suggested. 

I am the first to admit that I have had my looking failures in the past but, on this occasion, I felt that I had nailed it. I had looked in every nook and cranny, and peered under every batt, but had come up empty-handed, apart from untouched baits. 

‘Very odd,’ I thought, so later that day, and just to cover every base you understand, I went down to the cellar. I pulled my mum off her shelf, and told her all about the pandemic, and promised that I would keep my promise. She didn’t answer me of course, but the weird thing is that there have been no more footsteps since, and the roof is now as quiet as an undiscovered tomb.

A Sorry Tale of a Broken Arm by Dr Paul Carter

by Dr Paul Carter

 

 

One minute Gilly and I were happily gardening together, chatting about grafting techniques and soil pH, as gardeners do, and the next minute she was gone. I had glanced down to place a gooseberry bush in the hole I had just dug, and when I looked up, it was only to find that I was on my own. She had vanished into thin air.

I stood up and looked around, but without being any the wiser about the cause of her disappearance. I was starting to think that maybe she had slid through a wormhole into a parallel universe when I heard a faint cry of help from the bottom of the hawthorn hedge. I ran over to where the garden falls away steeply, and there she was lying at the bottom of the slope, firmly entangled in the hedge and lying on a Fakir’s bed of recently pruned spiky cuttings.

Although we worked together as a team, getting her out was no easy matter. Eventually, however, the hedge released its grip on her, and Gilly sat on the lawn above the slope, pulling a hundred thorns out of her bum and arm and telling me that her wrist hurt. From the swelling and the bruising, the wrist was always going to be broken, and that is exactly what the x-rays showed. 

By unlucky chance, on the very same day that Gilly fell over and broke her arm, and without so much as a by-your-leave, the fairy who looks so beautifully after our house, also disappeared. So that, on top of fussing over my poorly wife, I was now faced with all the domestic stuff as well. 

But I am not really complaining, because it’s turning out to be a fair bit easier than I had initially imagined. It is early days as yet, of course, but after looking a bit scruffy for a day or so, the house is once again looking much better now that I have shown Gilly how to use the vacuum cleaner, make the bed, and load and unload the dishwasher one-handed.  

Cooking was a little trickier, but I have given Gilly a copy of my second book and shown her some simple easy recipes that I don’t think will overtax her.  But just in case anyone thinks I am not pulling my weight, and having last night now found out where the fridge is, I chipped in with bangers and mash. It tasted okay, but something went wrong with my estimation of how much mash two people can eat, and there is now enough of it stored away to last the pair of us clear through to the American election.

But although Gilly is getting good at doing most things one-handed, she does sometimes struggle a bit, especially with the laundry. There are times when I find it quite uncomfortable to watch her, and I can’t wait for that fairy to get back from wherever it is she shot off to.