Today, with a bright wintry weather forecast, I was looking forward to a significant walk in far away countryside. However, that plan was soon postponed as our road had become a skating rink over night and the few cars attempting to tackle it were spinning on the black ice. Even the five yards from our front door to the pavement (American: sidewalk) looked hazardous.
Shirley took Phoebe home at around ten thirty when the ice was still lethal. That walk normally takes nine minutes but today it took twenty five. Their carefulness paid off for they didn't fall down. It is true that one fall on an icy footpath can change your life.
I stayed indoors till after 2pm and then I was finally motivated to get outside. The streets were still icy even though the air temperature has risen to 3°C. Sometimes walking on the road surface, I kept a sharp eye out for patches of ice. I was heading to Bert's terraced house.
I rapped on his door which is normally left unlocked during the day. Then I rapped again. There were occupation sounds from within and then a voice, "Who is it?"
"It's me Bert, Neil!"
He fumbled with the key and after a short delay I was let in. He was wearing a black thermal vest and matching shorts. Quite a sight to behold. It soon became obvious that he had only just got up. Upstairs, his youngest son - Philip was also stirring. Way past two in the afternoon and they were both just rising!
Bert explained that they had a very late night watching films on the television. Besides, on such a cold day - what did they have to get up for? It had been warm and cosy in bed.
I had brought Bert a little birthday gift - two cans of Caribbean rum and cola and a bar of Cadburys' Bournville chocolate plus a card I made myself using the only picture of Bert that I have. He will be eighty eight years old on Sunday having been born in 1936. Hell, he can still remember bombsites in the east end of London and being evacuated to Higham Ferrers in Northamptonshire. He and his family never went back to London's docklands.
Kindly, Philip poured me a glass of Bailey's Irish cream and I stayed for over an hour chatting with them. Surprisingly, Bert seemed in better shape than the last time I saw him. You expect gradual decline in his situation but I was seeing improvement. He even went upstairs to perform his ablutions. By the way, the staircases in traditional British terraced homes are usually very steep and potentially treacherous - even for people who are in the prime of their lives. I hope that those stairs will not be the death of him.
Returning home as evening was descending, I called in on Frances and the girls. Stewart has been away in Sweden all week on a company work project. Phoebe was glued to children's television as though entranced and Margot was at first having her afternoon nap. Frances has a strong job lead now and there have been preliminary phone conversations leading to a formal hour long presentation next week. If I were a gambling man, I would put a handful of banknotes on her getting this job but you never know, do you?
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