Custard Slice

Wednesday afternoon, and I have managed to lock myself out of the English Department. Annoying, because I have a pile of marking to attend to in my classroom; those A’ level students who have spent 3 terms doing very little having suddenly re-acquainted themselves with a work ethic. Pleasing, because the reason that I locked myself out was because I was busy walking down Tonbridge High Street with no visible means of support. So far, I have been only managing this indoors and on even ground. I made it. And I bought a custard slice, by way of reward. If I continue to do this, my expanding waistline will provide an increasing level of difficulty to my physiotherapy, thus speeding my recovery. It is surely ‘win, win’.

Custard slices notwithstanding, my physiotherapy has, in fact, reached an exciting stage. I am now attending ‘the gym’. Sadly, this is not the mirrored muscle palace with the steam room and pool in the basement that I always associated with the term gym. There are no tanned young urban professionals toning their thighs in serried ranks. There are no big screens or classes in the latest far-eastern self-improving philosophy. No masseuses. This is the gym at St. George’s hospital. Here you will find a variety of differently coloured balls, two exercise mats, and three electronic fitness aids, all vying for the same power socket. Throw in the odd eccentric patient with suspiciously stained tracksuit bottoms and an annoying tendency to sound superior about how the equipment should be used, and you have quite a venue. Still, it is progress, and you do, quite genuinely, get to work under the watchful eye of the true professionals. Some of whom, incidentally, are tanned young urbanites.

It has been a while since I blogged. In the intervening fortnight, we have been to Birmingham, and been told that a transplant is not a likely option at the moment, both as it would not yet perform the function of a life saving operation, and as William may be ‘contra-indicated’ anyway. I suspect this may run and run. We spent a weekend at William’s hospice. William managed to part company with his gastrostomy tube whilst in Mayday Hospital. And, on a more positive note, he has learnt to tell the time. After a fashion. And I’m not convinced he has the faintest idea of what time actually signifies. His day is still regulated by CBeebies and when he is allowed off his drip to ‘run free’. Meanwhile, I have spent the weeks frantically trying to keep up with the growing panic of my exam sets, singing quite a lot, trying to be of some use to Sarah in my few spare moments, and sleeping. There is no doubt in my mind that I have deserved the odd custard slice.