Saturday 27 October 2012

A whopping crack . . .

10 Forsythia Grove
Outer Hamlet
CORSETTSHIRE  ZY6 4GT
 
 
My Dear Ralph
It is a rather crisp day here, weather-wise, and I am just back from an early visit to Miss Nunne's.  This lady, herself, was actually standing, a little hunched over, on the stone steps leading up to her high wall as I motored up.  Clad in her usual outfit of black bombazine (worn since her husband's demise a decade ago) and accompanied by her latest Yorkshire Terrier, she wagged a gnarled-looking forefinger at me in a gesture of approach.  Pet, I exited from the Banger 0.9L and ascended the steps as rapidly as anyone might who is also clad in steel-capped boots.  'Young lady,' (for so she calls me) she rapped, 'I would like you to peruse my wall and sever any ivy stems which are invading its structure.  I should think this will take about an hour.'  Now dear, this is a long, high, wall we are talking about and I don't think Superman could accomplish such a feat in this time period.  So I replied in my most determined, and sternest, voice that, actually, 'It will take as long as it takes!'  We stared at one another and, luckily, she turned towards the house mentioning breakfast fare and its impending arrival on her table.
Mostly pet, one can snip through ivy stems ascending the base of any wall with a sharp pair of secateurs or a pair of loppers.  And ivy can be allowed to grow, pretty safely, on any new wall with intact mortar between the bricks or stones.  It is when there is no mortar, or crumbling mortar, that danger arises, for ivy stems, and aerial roots, can then penetrate into the depths of the structure and prise its elements apart.  I was, indeed, largely able to accomplish the above-described snipping in the case of Miss Nunne's wall and the multiple stems ascending it.  But then I reached the NW corner, whose stonework was largely concealed behind a pair of large ever-green shrubs.  At this point, I viewed a gigantic ivy stem (some 7.5cm in diameter) which was closely appressed to the wall.  This specimen had evidently been flourishing unseen for quite some decades!  More perturbingly, I was also able to view what appeared to be signs of significant buckling in this area of the wall: a pronounced bulge, shoe box size holes and a long, vertically-descending, widely-separated, crack!  Oh dear.  I was not looking forward to imparting these tidings to Miss Nunne as you can imagine!  The ivy stem itself would not fit inside the jaws of my loppers and so I resorted to a period of lengthy sawing with my junior hacksaw . . .  This worked I am pleased to say and I was able to remove the entire section I sawed through.  I then photographed the evidence (not expecting Miss Nunne to sally forth through the foliage) and repaired to the house.  I won't go into details regarding what happened inside there - suffice it to say that I was ejected at the end of a very loud blast of hot air and, somewhat scorched to say the least of it, repaired to the exit.  I did go past her 'pet cemetery' on the way out - reading multiple dedications to 'darling Twinkle' et cetera on the gravestones - and could only reflect that this lady must be a lot kinder to those live creatures walking around on four feet and clad in a natural fur outfit.
On an altogether different subject pet, I have been absorbing the contents of a book entitled, 'How to get Shot of your Middle-Aged Tum' as, depressingly, I seem to have acquired one.  I am now a positive mine of information on the topic of Visceral Adipose Tissue (VAT to those in the know) and dietary methods of disposing of it.  These largely seem to involve no sugar, no caffeine, no alcohol, little carbohydrate, no processed oils and much ingestion of protein and saturated fat.  I was certainly pleased to see the latter item listed as I am looking forward to purchasing - and munching upon - much butter, much cream, and much soft cheese!  All these items apparently drive the VAT away and, actually, I do believe in the credibility of this hypothesis.  The French, apparently, manifest the 'French paradox' in that they routinely consume large quantities of the above foods - and do not display the tendency to the protuberant abdomen commonly seen in UK men and women aged 50 and above.  And one certainly does not feel all that svelte carrying such a tum around with one, all day long!
I hope you are faring alright dear, and are not languishing in a Bright Litton gaol somewhere?  For my own quietness seems to have been succeeded by your own.
Yours
Aunt Agatha
 

Friday 26 October 2012

Secret Service: EPISODE 80

10 Forsythia Grove
Outer Hamlet
CORSETTSHIRE  ZY6 4GT
 
 
My Dear Ralph
I'm sorry for the long hiatus pet, but I have been somewhat out of sorts with a back injury and an analgesic-related bowel stoppage.  I am not back to my usual cheery self even now, as the above set of conditions would cause just about anybody to turn into an old Grump.
Meanwhile, I was called over to old Miss Nunne's large property on the edge of Outer Hamlet.  This elderly lady is only rarely seen about town but, some years ago, we became acquainted during a period of fitting tree guards to a newly-planted row of Holly trees.  I must say that the quality of cake supplied at this demesne was very high - and transported to a sitting room by a maid wearing an outfit wearing a most fetching lilac uniform topped by an actual hat - but Miss Nunne herself was not of the easiest temperament to bear.  We did rather fall out over my speed of work which Dolores (the maid) was sent over to communicate as being 'too slow' and, since then, I have not been back!  However, she was on the blower the other day in somewhat of a state over the condition of her ramparts - these being the high, 17th century, retaining wall enclosing a terraced lawn to the south of her house.  Apparently, these are now rather voluminously covered in ivy and she would like it removed!
It is an interesting wall pet and I have nothing but admiration for the building engineers who constructed it.  It took me some while (when I was last there) to work out how this edifice must have come about and these are my conclusions.  I think that, in the time before the wall existed, the house must have stood on some kind of grassy knoll.  And that the owner of the day decided to build a wall and have a terraced lawn running down south from the house.  So the stone must have been carted (literally) over and the wall built.  I do not know what kind of footings it stands on, but I believe they gave quite some thought to how to drain away ground water from the raised level of earth behind it.  As you may know dear, the principal cause of failure of a retaining wall is the build up of water - and its hydrostatic pressure - in the retained soil behind the wall.  And in this particular instance, I think water from the soil drains into a deep soakaway (which looks like a water well) the circular wall of which rises up out of the lawn.  At the bottom of the 'well,' of course, will be the pipes that conduct water from the soil, under the wall, and into a container which, in this case, is the 'pond.'  I think, dear, that, originally, they excavated a large hole (the pond) and that the top soil/clay from this was used to backfill the wall and create a flat surface on which to lay a lawn.  And that the water draining from the soil then entered the soakaway, ran along  the drainage pipes, and entered the cavity which became the pond!  This is so ingenious don't you think?  I am quite beside myself with admiration.
Anyway, I have agreed to go over there tomorrow and cast one or two eyeballs over the ivy, as I gather that one or two stems have reached substantial proportions and need to be severed.  I do hope my junior hacksaw will be up to the task!
Yours
Aunt Agatha 

Monday 15 October 2012

Life's pathway . . .

10 Forsythia Grove
Outer Hamlet
CORSETTSHIRE  ZY6 4GT

My Dear Ralph
I was just perusing the daily newpaper in the local cafe dear.  And I see - to my horror - that, here in the UK, we have been administering the 'End of Life Pathway' to the helpless elderly patient in hospital since 1990 or so.  As you probably recall, I regaled you recently with a bone-chilling account what happened to my chum Sarah a few years ago in No Return District General Hospital.  Unbeknownst to me at the time, this 'End of Life Pathway' was being applied, apparently in secrecy, and a more appalling death I have yet to see.  Our newspapers are correct.  If the elderly person says, as she did, that she didn't want any more 'medical treatment' this seems to be seen as giving carte blanche to a horrifying sequence of actions. Intravenous infusions ('drips' to give the patient - who may well have difficulty reaching their drinks - essential liquids) are discontinued but, far more perniciously, elderly patients who are not suffering from great pain are hooked up to a morphine pump which drips the deadly sedative into their veins and takes away consciousness and volition.  Denied, then, the fluids to keep them hydrated and administered, instead, with the equivalent of heavy 'knock out' drops - the unfortunate human person is effectively denied any chance of recovery and falls, progressively, into a numb and clammy stupor with only one ending.  The strongest horse, or bull, could not survive it.  One could possibly understand the 'no drip' idea (if patients were regularly, and actively, offered - and helped with - drinks) but not the morphine pump whose intention, as far as I can see, is to clear the wards of elderly people who cannot benefit from active medical interventions!
In my view dear, this 'End of Life Pathway' amounts to  unjustifiable homicide and its practitioners - over recent years in the UK - should be called to account and taken to trial!
Yours very hot under the collar
Auntie

Saturday 13 October 2012

Broomstick method . . .

10 Forsythia Grove
Outer Hamlet
CORSETTSHIRE  ZY6 4GT
 
My Dear Constance
It was so nice to see you the other weekend!  I had almost forgotten I had a half-sister hailing from the bowels of darkest Africa.  I am so sorry that the state of your hip joints has called for a return to more temperate climes!  However, it does sound as if you have struck upon a solution in the form of castor oil and a new motor scooter.
Things continue to be interesting over at Colonel Mustang's premises.  Patrick (one of the gardeners) has taught me how to drive the tractor and I am now motoring about the plantation, endeavouring not to catch the trailer on any of the trees!  Speaking of trees, one or two of these have caught my attention recently and I have embarked upon a spree of general visual inspection - through binoculars - and report writing.  One project concerns the dead Ash currently positioned at the end of the lake and which, should it fall, could slaughter one or two residents motoring past or even decimate the ancient ramparts which, as I may have mentioned, date from the 16th century.  So I decided to measure said tree in the end - using the well-known 'broomstick' method supplemented with a clinometer angle check!  I was most fortunate dear, in that the two measurements actually tallied up at roughly 20.6m.  This is most definitely tall enough to crush any Mustang loitering in the vicinity.
Sebastian did actually phone up the day after your departure on the bus.  I got the impression that he was feeling somewhat forlorn about one or two health issues and that he thought I might be a suitable person to discuss these with (either that or he knew that I was the only one likely to be alone and doing nothing thrilling at the weekend).  Anyway, he asked if it was possible to motor off to Superior Fare for some provisions and so off we went.  He was actually so pleasant that I felt like asking him if he was running a temperature!  I do believe we actually managed to have a mutually warm and human encounter and this has only happened on one or two occasions since we became acquainted - nearly six years ago.
I do know exactly what you mean about 'live performance' by the way.  God only knows I am equally terrified at the thought of introducing one of our live evening comedy monologues from up on the stage!  But we are getting on a bit now dear and must push a little against all these terrors because we don't know how many - or how few - years we have left.  The sands of time and so on and so forth.  So my advice is to give it a go; things may go better than you think!  Equally, I am pleased that you have got out the paintbrushes and waterproof sheeting because it is important to have a measure of creativity in one's life.  And I would certainly like one of your oil paintings in time for next Christmas!
Fondest love
Your sister in adversity
Agatha 


Sunday 7 October 2012

Lolling in bed . . .

10 Forsythia Grove
Outer Hamlet
CORSETTSHIRE  ZY6 4GT
My Dear Ralph
As for what kind of day I have had today pet, I hardly know what to say.  I drove over to No Return District General Hospital earlier on, to visit Pom-Pom.  I had not actually seen him for a week or so now.  When I walked into the six-bedded bay, I was horrified to see him lolling in bed, yellow in colour, and looking as if he is dying.  His mouth had fallen in and he whispered to me that he was oozing diarrhoea into the bed.  (My hair stands on end dear as I endeavour to relate this.)  He looked very dehydrated and said he felt very ill.  I suggested that he pushed the buzzer and he did do this. Two health care assistants materialized to clean him up and, at this point, his sister also arrived.  We sat down outside drawn curtains, in a rather paralysing silence, not knowing each other very well, and probably struck dumb by the distressing situation before us.  Indeed, who would know what to say under such circumstances?  I did ask, furious, why Pom-Pom did not even have a drip up but Marian was mute upon the subject and probably felt as impotent as I.  After some - rather stiff and difficult - fifteen minutes or so, I drove back home.  On the way, it occurred to me that Pom-Pom's refusal to receive any more 'medical treatment' probably meant that he wouldn't be offered a drip to keep him hydrated.  This thought upset me sufficiently to brave phoning his daughter, a.k.a. the redoubtable Xanthe, in order to pose this question.  After some actual conversation about the situation, she agreed to phone the ward and find out.  She did phone back a few hours later and told me that her father's ECG (electrocardiogram) had suggested the fact that he is in 'heart block' and that he requires a pacemaker to be fitted.  I myself hope that this, apparently proven, need for medical treatment will result in a drip being put up.  Honestly dear, my blood is running hot and cold during the relaying of this situation to yourself.
I am not altogether sure whether the hospital scenario is responsible but I appear to be suffering from sympathetic symptoms myself!   A rather distressing abdominal protuberance (from the waist down) has appeared in my own person in recent weeks - and, naturally, it has occurred to me that I may be suffering from a) ovarian cancer or b) coeliac disease.  The former is a condition which seems to be prevalent in childless spinsters, such as myself, and the latter is apparently a malabsorption condition related to an allergy to wheat.  And I myself, as you know dear, am somewhat of a nosher on thick slices of wholewheat toast slathered in lashings of honey or strawberry jam.  It is certainly most boring to be confining one's daily consumption to small portions of gruel and cans of thin vegetable soup!  Life is full of the most horrible challenges, not to mention frequent ethical dilemmas, and it is not easy to come out of it glowing with either health or purity!
Well someone is slurping from a beer glass in an adjacent seat and, on my other side, an individual in a baseball cap is pounding darts into a board.  And so this may be an appropriate point at which to conclude my epistle!
Yours
Aunt Agatha

Thursday 4 October 2012

The Flintstones . . .

10 Forsythia Grove
Outer Hamlet
CORSETTSHIRE  ZY6 4GT
My Dear Ralph
I do not know whether or not you will find this fact scintillating pet but, this morning, I have attended the local washeteria - still not having acquired a contrivance for this purpose. These premises are located, surprisingly, in what appears to be a breeze block shack with substantial purple shutters fitted to the exterior of the windows!  I hoved into view at about 8am with my two hessian bags stuffed to the brim with clothing and mounted on my aged person's shopping trolley.  I don't know why the proprietors of such premises are always so surly and tend to remind one of the inmates of caves such as those seen in the Flintstones, do you dear?  I did, eventually, manage to secure a small level of rapport but this may not have been assisted by my filling what turned out to be plastic coffee cups with my washing powder!
I did happen to bump into Caspar on my way back home - the citizen with the chipmunk and a penchant for mauve-patterned waistcoats - and he kindly offered to let me have a bath round at his premises if I should need one (my having expatiated, at some length, about the failed heating element in my immersion tank).  My need to avail myself of such facilities has been mounting in a rather exponential sort of a way and so I materialized on Caspar's doorstep this very afternoon with the kind of accoutrements generally required for the bathing of the female form.  Somewhat to my consternation - bearing in mind the general need for discretion in small outposts such as Outer Hamlet - muted thumpings on the door knocker were greeted by barking at loud volume and huge paws scrabbling about in the higher portion of the door glass!  I have never acquainted myself with the appearance of the Hound of the Baskervilles but I think Caspar's dog may very well fit the physical characteristics of said beast.  Of course, I was very firm pet and immediately turned my back, crossed my arms, and yelled, 'DOWN!'  And although I do not think he understood this command he did - at least momentarily - remove his claws from either side of my neck.  I must say that the furnishings round at Caspar's looked much more luxurious than my own at Forsythia Grove, but then he is probably not obliged to acquire his furniture from 'Wot Not's' in Inner Hamlet . . .  The shower was actually most delectable and I do feel strongly tempted to attend these premises again - particularly as I have been invited!
Yours
Aunt Agatha