New Year’s Eve on the street and in the bell tower END FINAL YES END

 

At least I had previously confirmed with our tower captain that this was going to be the only open door on the way out too so I didn’t instantly rush away to check all the other doors—it’s a big close and there might always be another frelling door down another twisty frelling medieval alley. . . .  I may have done a little un-Street-Pastor like snarling.  I turned back toward the tower thinking that there were a number of other people who were going to be wanting to get out of the close one way or another and maybe the bishop could bless a door open or maybe we could have The Miracle of the Falling Down Wall* or something.

As I circled back toward the door that was supposed to be open** I saw one of our more volatile senior ringers approaching the shut door.  Under other circumstances what was about to happen might have been amusing, but I like the idea of ringing and SPing on New Year’s Eve, and the SP admin are not going to let me do it if I disappear into the bell tower and am never seen again.

And at this point Mr Cock of the Walk materialised, striding around the corner in rooster-coloured day-glo waterproofs.  He had the look of a man with a key to a large Saxon-echt door and I, who sometimes knows when to keep a grip, addressed him humbly.  Yes, he says, taking up the entire pavement with his swinging I Am the Man gait***, I’m going to open the door.

And now our volatile senior ringer catches sight of him.

. . . Okay, it was pretty funny.  Fortunately Mr Man did still open the gate.

I SPRINTED.

And my team were happy to see me again and said they’d listened to the bells and thought of me ringing.†

And, as New Year’s Eves go, it was pretty mellow.  Except for the not getting home till nearly 5 a.m. part.

But I hope I’ll do it again.  If they let me.††

* * *

PETER UPDATE:  We had our appointment with Dr Goodpotions yesterday and HE TOOK PETER OFF THREE DRUGS.†††  YAAAAAAAAY.  I don’t generally go with Peter to his GP—why would I—only when there’s something extreme going on, you know?  When I’m probably feeling a trifle extreme myself.  Whereupon I have to remember to be calm and understated‡ because Dr Goodpotions is VERY BRITISH.  VERY VERY BRITISH.  VERY.  I’m an American.  I don’t know how to be that British.  I don’t have the right glands.  I’m missing a crucial blood component.  It’s taking me YEARS to learn how not to frighten/repel Dr Goodpotions into not talking to me.

It worked pretty well yesterday though, the attempt at calm and understated.  What I wanted to hear was that Dr G had any idea what all these drugs were beyond what it said on the packet—um, I tried not to say it quite like this—and he said that they were all common and familiar and had been around in heavy use for years and their little idiosyncrasies were pretty well documented and not to worry, and furthermore that the particular nasty interaction that had freaked me out was old news and had been discredited.  Oh.  I’d still rather have the internet available to find out scary things on that may be untrue, but I admit I wasn’t instantly ready to view Medscape through my DISTRUST filter, shiny with use elsewhere on the webz as it is.

And then today Peter and I went to Mauncester for the first time since he fell ill.  It was going to be an adventure, and would include how well his stamina is holding up.  But I had been late picking him up at the mews and was busy blithering and rescheduling the rest of the day, and we divided up the errands as if everything was normal and I shot off in my designated direction and got about halfway to my first stop and suddenly thought I’ve just cut loose an eighty-six-year-old man who had a stroke less than three weeks ago alone in a large noisy confusing city MCKINLEY HAVE YOU LOST YOUR MIND?  Well.  Yes.  Frequently.

He was fine.  I nearly had a nervous breakdown before I found him again.

And on the way home Peter said, you know, it’s the 3rd.  Yes, I said, we’ve been thinking about going out to dinner.‡‡  No, he said, I mean it’s the real 3rd, the 3rd of January, the actual wedding-anniversary 3rd.

I’d forgotten.‡‡‡  How embarrassing is that.

So we had to go out to dinner.

Yes.  There was champagne.§

* * *

* Theodora and I would have been happy to let them have our falling-down wall experience from last winter, if we’d only known.^  We could have told the Falling Down Wall fairy that its services were going to be vital the coming New Year’s Eve at an abbey close not far away and it should conserve its resources.

^ Despite the loss of photo-blog posts.  I would be willing to cede these.

** It was also raining.  Just by the way.  Heavily.^  I was bad and wicked and put my coat back on.^^

^ This footnote got left behind last night.  If you look closely you will observe that the ‡ footnote is missing.  Well, this is it.

^^ I also dropped my gloves in another puddle.  The wages of sin.  Sigh.

*** You can sure see where the term ‘wide boy’ could have come from.

† Also, nobody laughed.  God is kind.

††I’ll remember the large black plastic trash bag to cover up my logos next year.  Or maybe I could knit a very large Navy blue shawl.

††† He’s still on quite a few.  But three fewer.

‡ YAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRGGGGGHHHHHHHH

‡‡ New readers or those with better things to remember:  Our two important dates are the 26th of July^ and the 3rd of January.  The rest of the year, if we want a random celebration, we tend to choose either a 26th or a 3rd.

^ We’d met before.  But this was The Meeting.

‡‡‡ I told you I lose my mind frequently.

§ And we’re both shattered.