Tempests

We got caught in a tempest today, and by that I don't mean the relatively tame one conjured by Shakespeare but the enactment of a terrible elemental rage. The sky looked innocent enough as we set off for our morning walk, and because I felt unusually energetic we headed off the long way around the fields. Before long a fierce wind started to blow and horizontal rain was fired in its vanguard, right into the side of us. We were dressed for winter, me in my thick jacket, padded trousers and care-in-the-community hat, Hugo wearing his waterproof, sheepskin-lined coat, so were were quite well protected, but we were no match for this weather. Pretty soon my left side was saturated, the dog's coat and all his exposed parts dripping. As we turned right at the bottom of the field the wind suddenly got up even stronger, and it was all I could do to stay upright as it howled against my back. I glanced up at the distant house a few times and wondered if we'd make it back. As we turned up the third straight the rain hit our other side, but now it was hailstones that slashed at my cheeks and made the dog scamper and skitter wildly at the end of the long lead. Of course we got home, and quickly stripped off our soaked clothes and dried ourselves in the warm kitchen. And what do you know! The wind dropped, the hailstones stopped and the sun came out. That's timing for you.

I experienced the extraordinary efficiency and bounty of the NHS today, the part that doesn't make the headlines. First a blood test at my local health centre to check that my new blood pressure tablets are not interfering with my liver and kidney functions. Then a visit to the hospital for an x-ray of my thoracic spine to monitor the havoc that osteoporosis is causing to my bones. A letter from the cardiologist asking my GP to add a few extra medications to my current cocktail caused me to make another date to see him. And when I got home I saw that I had missed a call from Papworth Hospital offering me an appointment for an angioplasty and stent fitting. There! I've put it all in one tidy paragraph, reducing it to a manageable size. You survive nearly seven decades as a fit and healthy person, then suddenly you morph into a patient and your diary has more medical appointments than social ones. But I have an end in sight, and it's not death. Give me a few weeks, a couple of months tops, and this will all be a distant memory. Like today's tempest, this too shall pass.