This is an attempt to put everything I have previously published in one location . . . not on my hard drive! Most of you will have read this previously as an email, I am merely making in a permanent part of my blog.
I'm
sure you have all heard of a year in Provence, well this is my
attempt at six months in Groby. It's been nearly two weeks since my
arrival in the UK, where an officious little English civil servant
held me in immigration for more than an hour before releasing me
with the admonition not to overstay the six months I am allowed to be
here. All of this is because I set off red flags by applying for a
visa to stay for “up to a year” on compassionate grounds.
Fortunately, the fact that they denied my request appears to be a non
issue as Mick's Dad is making a rather remarkable recovery for a man
of 89. Oh , how the world has changed, particularly since 9/11.
Back in the seventies, yes I realise some of you weren't even alive
then, they simply wrote on my passport “does not need to report”.
Mind you the Brits weren't the only ones to mess me about . . . the
Americans took my hand cream off of me when going through security
and proceeded to leave my baggage behind in Las Vegas. But then, I'm
here, my luggage is here and all is well with the world.
I
am sorry to report that despite the fact that it is March and rumour
(English spelling, Dad's computer insists I don't know how to spell
rumour) has it that there has been rain and snow in Ashland in my
absence, the weather has been fabulous, brilliant even. I'm sure it
must have reached 70 the last couple of days, definitely shirt sleeve
weather. We have been doing our best to take advantage of this
unusual circumstance and have been out exploring the countryside.
Until yesterday we remained mostly local, within 10 miles of Groby.
Did a couple of local parks and explored a reclaimed coal tip in
Coalville. A tip is British for the tailings or debris that results
from mining. They have been quite successful at renovating these
eyesores and turning them in to places to walk and “recreate”.
Oh by the way if you want to speak Leicestershire(eze) put the accent
on the ville part of Coalville and the county I am staying in
currently, Leicestershire, is pronounced “lester sheer”. Mick
suggests that I also share with you if you are afraid it would not be
uncommon in these parts to say you were “frit”.
Yesterday
was an outing to Foxton Lock. Always a joy navigating in Britain . .
. merge on to the A50, go through four roundabouts and take the third
exit on the fourth roundabout to Langton. Turn right at Beechwood
Drive ( a narrow lane with no signpost!) go to the second roundabout
and . . . you get the picture. I think the hardest thing is that
nothing and I mean nothing, is laid out on a grid. Roads, curve and
turn and wander for no apparent reason and to cap it all off you may
never get on a different road and yet the name has changed three
times. Learned an abbreviation on our route, HMP, Her Majesty's
Prison. This one was HMP Gartree and did not look to be much of an
establishment for incarceration, more like council houses. Ah well,
as Americans we do have a reputation to uphold for imprisoning folk
for reasons that others worldwide cannot fathom.
As
to the locks, I posted some pictures on facebook, so for those of you
with whom I am not facebook friends just send me a request and I will
“befriend” you. There is a substantial canal system in England
which had been a significant means of transporting goods before the
railways and the automobile. Now they are mostly recreational and
run through rural areas and periodically there are either tunnels or
locks to navigate. The locks are all hand operated and in the case
of Foxton there are actually 5 lock gates which carry one boat at a
time and it takes about 45 minutes to go from top to bottom or bottom
to top. This one has a lovely pub at the base where we had lunch.
We
spoke with a couple who were waiting their turn to traverse the locks
and his theory was that someone went out and surveyed all the best
pubs in the country and connected them up with water. I like his
reasoning, seems a good reason to have a canal boat holiday. Was
just googling about hiring a canal or narrow boat for a holiday and
found the most wonderful place name, Wootten Wawen. Have no idea
where it is or how to pronounce it, but I do like the name.
II
I'm
sure I have shared with some of you how when Mick's Mum (Mom in
American) came to visit we nearly always lost some major appliance as
well as innumerable pieces of glassware. Well it would seem turn
about is fair play and so it is the Church household is now the proud
owner of a new “tumble” dryer. It all started when, using a
pressure washer on the patio, we blew a fuse and related or not the
dryer would no longer open. Also set off the burglar alarm which
entailed resetting it at least five times while it beeped
incessantly. The dryer was well and truly stuck, we removed the top
and there was no way to get to the latch. We turned it over but the
bottom was a solid piece of sheet metal as was the back, and brute
force short of a hammer was totally ineffectual. So we made the trip
to Curry's to assess the possibilities. England is a small country,
their houses are small and their appliances are equally small, just
check out the photo of Dad's refrigerator on facebook. There was no
shortage of choices, there were at least 8 different models of vented
dryers and an equal number of “condenser dryer” (it's tough to
put a hole in a brick wall just to vent your laundry), a veritable
cornucopia by UK standards. The silly things are about as big as a
two drawer file cabinet, yes I exaggerate, but not by much. The
largest capacity one they had was 8 kg or roughly 17 pounds, while
the smallest held only 3 kg or 8 lbs. Dad chose one at 6 kg but with
a sensor that will shut it off automatically when the clothes are dry
, a totally new concept to him. His current machine has only a timer
and no way to control temperature, drying jeans runs about 90 minutes
and underwear about 30. Don't let me get up on my soap box about
just how spoiled we are, and I haven't told you about his heating/hot
water system yet! So yes the dryer has been installed and works like
a champ but the weather has been so fine we actually strung up a
“solar” dryer. Clothes sure do smell good when dried on a line.
I
particularly like the setting on the new dryer . . . Iron Dry,
Cupboard Dry, Extra Dry and Bone Dry. Well iron dry, can probably
guess what that one means though I have no intent of ever using the
setting or the implement. Cupboard Dry a uniquely British invention.
Most home have what is termed an airing cupboard and it is where
the water heater lives. Water heaters are small devices probably
half the size of what we are accustomed to and so the cupboard or
closet, if you will, has slatted shelves for placing folded laundry
that is mostly dry but can be finished off in the cupboard.
So
another of my adventures has been to deal with the “creeping crud”
on my legs with a visit to the National Health Service. Uncertain as
to what is the best approach we contact our insurer in the US, no
problem says they, get treatment and submit the bills. Okay, grand,
I know the locals get steamed at all the foreigners coming here and
immediately getting every benefit they offer, and believe me there is
a grant or benefit for any imaginable situation. So being wary of
alienating the natives I go to my ever faithful resource, Google, and
type in private doctor, private healthcare and dermatologist. It
soon becomes obvious that if you are looking for a private doctor,
who is a dermatologist you are looking for someone who will give you
a whole new you. Wonder what the cost of botox is and if my insurer
might baulk, perhaps they call it something else. I plunge ahead,
make a phone call, get put on hold for probably five minutes only to
be told I have to go through the local GP. I won't bore you with the
additional phone calls it took to convince Dr. Gajibasia's front
office that they should see me, but see me they did. So here's the
deal, if you need a doctor you must go to the one that is assigned to
you by virtue of where you live. Think I probably knew this once
upon a time in a land long ago and far away. Dr Gajibasia, a Sikh,
with a turban and all is the doctor for Groby. They refer to their
offices as “surgeries”, not a very comforting phrase when all you
want is something to clear up a rash. BTW. Dental offices are
surgeries as well.
I
get Mick to drop me off and I plan on walking back to the bungalow
when all is finished. We pull up on Rookery Lane in front of one of
those black and white buildings that make you think Shakespeare and
Tudor and once I get inside it is most definitely a Tudor building
that has been renovated. Big beams, fairly low ceilings and a rabbit
warren of rooms. Kinda spartan, whitewashed walls, concrete floors
but definitely not what one would call clinical. I check in with the
receptionist who hands me some forms and says “fill them out and
give them to the doctor”. No clipboard, no pen and no history,
just who I am.
I
take a seat in a black plastic chair, the kind that give you a shock
when you get up and wait for my name to appear on the reader board
above the receptionist's window. Gayle Church Room 1. I let myself
in, the first door I come to says “eye exams”, the next says
something about a nurse and the third say Exam Room 1. I push it
open , step in to a narrow hallway that leads to room of perhaps 10
x10. There are NHS posters on one whitewashed wall, the other is
blank and under the window, seated at an old blonde wood desk, circa
1960, sits Dr. Gajibasia. Spiffy pinstripe suit, Saville Row
perhaps? Mind you it's that pinstripe I intensely dislike with the
wide white stripes in a deep grey background. French cuffs extend
from his sleeves with beautiful silver cuff links. His tie is a deep
burgundy which precisely matches his turban. The desk is pretty much
empty except for a computer monitor. What kind of a time warp have I
just walked in to.
In
the end I came away with prescription for a cortisol steroid and a
request to return in three weeks. I wandered down to the bottom of
the hill and the Chemist to have my prescription filled. The
Chemist, Druggist, Pharmacist, Drug store whatever it is you may want
to call it has a store front on the Ratby Road around the corner from
the Green Grocer, next to the Chinese take-out and just a step or two
away from the newsagent. I step in to a waiting area about 4 X 6
with a single plastic chair, is there a theme here? There is nothing
to buy if you don't need some sort of treatment, no cards, not candy,
no knick-knacks. I had over my piece of paper, they confirm my age
and less than five minutes later I have a little tube of white
ointment. Thus far no money has changed hands nor do I think it
will. Small wonder people get distressed by all the “foreigners”
getting medical treatment.
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