9.6 Thank you

This is an instalment of an autobiographical series. For more information and a list of instalments so far, see right.

It was a few days after New Year. Our little potted Christmas tree with its ropes of white and coloured lights still twinkled in the sitting-room. Christmas cards still looped around the house on pieces of red string.
    We’d spent the festive season just the two of us, as we usually did these days. My siblings’ houses filled up with their children and in-laws at Christmas and, with my parents gone, there was nowhere else for us to stay. As for Frog’s family . . . well, that was another story.
    I’d found the time a little sad – Christmas was always a tricky time for me, remembering my estrangement from my parents. At least it had been normal however, unlike the year before when Christmas had been ‘cancelled’ because of Covid and there’d been an all-pervading air of gloom.
    We were now into 2022, and a new start for all of us, I hoped.
 
Frog watched as I prepared for my morning walk with Ellie, zipping myself in my ancient quilted coat and lacing my feet into walking boots.
    ‘I might come with you today,’ he said.
    ‘That would be lovely,’ I said. ‘I can show you the new route I’ve found.’
    I meant it, but I was puzzled. What had prompted that? He never normally walked with me round home.
    But then everything about him was strange these days.
   
As we set off, the sun shone but a cold wind was blowing and I was glad of my hat, gloves and scarf – red this morning in honour of the season. Choosing the different colours of my hat, gloves and scarf each morning gave a lift to wintry days.
    The start of the walk was a steep climb up the lane behind the house, and as Frog fell behind I grew impatient. Why was he walking so slowly?
    At one stage he’d been using the hill as an aerobic training track, charging up it daily in an effort to bring his blood pressure down. It hadn’t worked however, and nor had the Chinese herbs, and he was now on conventional medication. So his health should have been under control. Had he simply become unfit instead?
    His mother of course had died of a stroke at fifty-nine, so he’d approached that birthday with trepidation, but now it was ten years behind him.
   
I charged on ahead and stopped at a gate halfway up the hill to wait for him. There was a view eastward over fields and hills, and I breathed in the space and the silence and the fresh air. Even at this time of year, nature restored me.
    But where was Frog? He’d been ages. I looked back.
    At last he appeared around a corner below, and I was shocked. He was hardly moving. Each footstep appeared to be an effort. He looked old - and I'd never thought that before.
    When he reached the gateway I shifted to one side to give him space, but as I did so he gave a small cry of surprise and fell to the ground.
    His eyes closed and his breathing became intermittent and I knew something was seriously wrong. I rang 999, my hands shaking.
    On autopilot, I explained in detail exactly where I was, which wasn’t easy as we were far from civilisation. Luckily, as I’d been walking the area for over forty years I could name every farm and crossroads in the vicinity. It took some time doing so.
    When I described Frog’s symptoms, the person on the phone suggested I try and resuscitate him. I didn’t understand that. How could you bring someone back from unconsciousness?
    A neighbour had been resuscitated by his son and ever since he’d been in a wheelchair.
    They wanted me to put my phone on ‘speaker’ so that they could give me instructions, but my phone was too old for that, and then in my flurry I dropped it and lost it in the undergrowth.
    I tried to resuscitate Frog anyway as I’d had some training in first aid a long time ago, but he was sprawled awkwardly against a bank, difficult to get at and far too heavy for me to move.
   
As if by a miracle – by my reckoning it had only been a few minutes since Frog had collapsed - two ambulances and a medical car arrived, and an Air Ambulance helicopter landed in the field the other side of the gate.
    The farmer sped up on a quad bike from his yard below and unlocked the gate.
    With packs on their backs and cases in their hands, medics leapt out. They lifted Frog into the field and started attaching equipment to him.

I stood out of the way in the road and put Ellie on her lead. She was barking loudly. What was going on? Why were all these people here? Why was Frog the centre of attention and not her?
    Tim, a neighbour from further up the road appeared at my side.
    ‘Can I help?’ he asked.
    ‘Could you take Ellie,’ I said, proffering the lead.
   ‘Of course,’ he answered, taking the lead and walking back up the lane.
    Ellie trotted after him without a backward glance.
 
A medic with a clipboard came up to me and took some details.
    ‘Would John want to be resuscitated,’ she asked, ‘if there was a chance he would be a vegetable?’
    ‘Absolutely not,’ I said, wondering why she even had to ask.
    In any case, I had the conviction that somehow, in the bigger scheme of things, this was his time to go. He’d made his choice and we needed to respect that. Not that I could possibly have said that to anyone.

I tried not to look as they injected him and gave him electric shocks. His body shook like a jelly, but there was no sign of life.

The helicopter departed, and the two ambulances set off in convoy for the hospital in Exeter, Frog in the first, attached to life-support machinery, and me in the second with two paramedics.
    At the hospital they left me in a small empty room, saying they were going to continue trying to resuscitate him. I perched on the edge of a seat, struggling to breathe. Still in my dog-walking clothes, I felt hot and frumpy.
    A new person appeared and told me they’d stopped trying. Did I want to see him?
    I nodded.
    It took them some time to find the key for the room but at last they let me in and shut the door behind me.

I touched Frog’s hand. It was cold. His clothed body lay like a straw man without stuffing. I wondered whether his spirit was still around but I didn’t sense it.
    Thank you, I whispered to him. Thank you for our life together. Thank you. Thank you.
    I couldn’t stop saying thank you.

To be continued

9.5 Lockdown

This is an instalment of an autobiographical series. For more information and a list of instalments so far, see right.

Frog was in bed with a high temperature. He’d collapsed with uncontrollable shivering after a walk by the sea several days earlier and been ill ever since, not eating and hardly speaking. He was downstairs in the spare room so I was able to tiptoe in and out regularly seeing how he was but keep my distance so as not to catch myself whatever he was suffering from. Flu, I presumed.
    On the Monday I planned to drop Ellie off at the dog-minder where she played once a week with a gang of other dogs, coming back exhausted. It gave me a break and kept her connected to other dogs. Actually, she didn’t play with the other dogs, she led them. The dog-minder would sigh with relief when Ellie arrived saying, ‘Ah, now at last the dogs will be under control.’ At the end of the day she would arrive back at the compound first, with all the other dogs trotting meekly behind her. What a monster! She was now ten years old but as fit and bossy as ever.

 

 

 At the dog-minder: Ellie and friends. (She is in the front on the left.)

I went in to see Frog before I left. He had the radio on so I presumed he was feeling a little better.
    ‘Just off to the dog-minder,’ I said.
    Frog opened his eyes.
    ‘Oh,’ he mumbled. ‘I don’t think that’ll be possible. We’re in lockdown.’
    ‘Lockdown!’ I said. ‘What’s that?’
     I’d heard the word recently but because I hadn’t been listening to the news – I relied on Frog for that – I didn’t know exactly what it meant.
    Frog tried to explain.
 
In a temper I put my boots and coat on and prepared to take Ellie out for a walk round home instead. How dare they restrict us, I thought.
    As I traversed the field behind the house a text pinged on to my phone.
    ‘You must stay at home,’ it said. ‘You must not go out . . .’
    I couldn’t believe it. How did they know my number? How did they know I was going out for a walk? Who was ‘they’?
    What sort of a country did we live in? Had it turned into a police state?
    In rebellion at the text – no way was I going without my daily dose of solitude and nature - I spent several hours wandering the hill, peeing in my secret wood, and enjoying the glorious spring sunshine (it was March).
    When I got home Frog was definitely more alert, but he looked worried.
    ‘I think I’ve got some sort of infection,’ he said. ‘I can’t pee properly and it hurts.’
    ‘How did you get that?’ I asked, slightly unsympathetically.
    I’d been in a temper with him too since the walk by the sea when he’d completely ignored something I’d said, even though I realised now it was because he was feeling so dreadful. What a horrible person I was.
    ‘I haven’t been drinking,’ he said.
    Oh my God. That was my fault. It hadn’t occurred to me that I should have been checking up on that. I wasn’t much of a nursemaid, was I?
    He managed to produce a urine sample and I raced to the A & E department of our local hospital. They were horrified to see me and kept telling me to keep my distance but eventually I saw a lovely doctor who spent about an hour talking to me, telephoning Frog who was able just about able to talk to her, and warning me that if he stopped peeing completely it was an emergency and I should get him treatment immediately.
    I went home with a course of antibiotics for him.
 
So that was the start of our lockdown experience.
    The rest of it passed more or less like our normal life. I took the dog for walks, Frog and I worked together in the garden. I talked to my neighbours when I was out, either on the footpaths or over their garden gates, and we swapped books. I sewed and read and swam in the little pool we were lucky enough to have. I practised yoga on the lawn.
    The weather was extraordinary, with blazing sunshine day after day, the sky a deeper blue than I’d ever seen it in this country before. The silence buzzed. Instead of car exhaust when I stepped outside of a morning, I was greeted with sweetness and the sort of freshness you normally only found by the sea.
    Frog chafed a little as he loved shopping and going out so when we heard on the local news – where there’d been an ongoing debate as to whether or not you could drive to find a place to walk – that so long as your walk was longer than your drive it was OK.
    I took that to mean lengths of time (even though I realise now that they probably meant miles) so Frog and I took to venturing out occasionally to all our favourite places - the sea, the canal, the moors – as well as exploring new places because we had the time. It was idyllic as there was no one else about.
    The only downside as far as Frog was concerned was the fact that we couldn’t go to a pub or café but had to take a picnic instead. I found some vegan sausage rolls in Sainsbury’s however and tempted him with those.
    ‘Very nice,’ he pronounced them. ‘Almost as good as Ma’s.’
 
Another downside of our outings was Frog’s attacks of chest pain. These could be quite severe and necessitated him lying on the ground for half an hour or so, looking grey. But we didn’t pay too much attention to them – or at least I didn’t. He’d been spraying foam into the gap between the garage walls and its roof because he was rebuilding his Mini kit car in there and needed the place watertight. This had meant a lot of stretching up and so the pain, we thought, was probably muscular.
    Or at least, that was what Frog said. But whether it was what he believed was another matter.
    I began to have the strange sensation that he was keeping something from me. Being a Piscean, he could be a slippery customer, not always telling me whole truths, and I knew of course from the time of Sam that he could lie outright.
 
During the winter lockdown which wasn’t quite so nice, muddy walks being the only entertainment available, I would go down to his semi-underground den where he spent hours playing patience on his computer while listening to music, and he would look at me with wide open eyes, the picture of innocence.
    Not.
    ‘What aren’t you telling me?’ I would plead. ‘You’re lying to me.’
    I knew that face so well and I was terrified of any untruth coming between us, of a repetition of the Sam years.
    ‘Nothing!’ he would protest. ‘I’m not.’
   But then as well as wide-eyed he would look worried, and sad, and a bit lost.

To be continued

9.4 Rewilding

This is an instalment of an autobiographical series. For more information and a list of instalments so far, see right.

It all started when I was eleven years old. I was lying on the grass at the edge of the village cricket ground, with views of the wooded North Downs all around. A cricket match was in progress but I was more interested in my book, The Hobbit. As I looked up, however, something flashed in my mind. Whether that was the result of something in the book, or whether it was something in me, I don’t know.  I realised that I loved this landscape and that one day it could be lost. 
    Later in my teens I explored the Downs and their flora, first with the help of the botanist mother of a friend and later on my own. The wildflowers stunned me with their variety and beauty. The landscape was alive and breathing. It spoke to me. I was connected to it.
    In my late teens and early twenties when I went to London to work I was equally stunned by the horror of the place – the concrete and tarmac, the dirt, the greyness, the noise, the smell, the frightening people, the money-grabbing. The pointlessness of it all.
    Once in Devon, even though at first I thought the landscape was dull after Kent – where were all the trees? – I grew to love it, especially the hedgerows that brimmed with colour from March to October. With the realisation that this too could all be lost, a pain grew inside me. I read an article that described that sort of environmental anguish as deep grief. That was exactly what it was.
    Over the next few decades, I joined conservation organisations, wrote about the environment, campaigned with Friends of the Earth. But nothing seemed to change, either in me or in the world at large.
    I joined a protest against a motorway being pushed through sites of Special Scientific and archaeological interest, not to mention beauty, but it seemed pointless. Many locals wanted the road. I realised that anger and criticism never changed anything.
    Everything about the environmental movement I concluded was negative – don’t drive, don’t shop, don’t eat this or that – and prescriptive. There was only one way to think. It was yet another straightjacket.
    Then, as usual, I read a book.

It was the title that caught my attention, and the picture on the cover. Both reflected how I felt: trapped in an alien world. The book described a new, wholly positive, solution to the environmental crisis and the crisis in human being.
    The solution was ‘rewilding’, which meant letting damaged ecosystems heal themselves and bringing back missing species so that nature could look after itself.
    I could see so clearly that this was the only thing that would save the world – and me – and humankind. We needed to be wild and whole too.

Then I read another book.

This described the actual rewilding of Knepp, a tired farmed estate in West Sussex. It was written by the owner and read like a novel. I couldn’t put it down, and what was more the estate was only a couple of miles from where my brother Danny lived and was open to the public. I raced to see him and dragged him and his family out there.
    As we drove through the grounds to the carpark, I could see either side of us instead of the usual manicured grass an enticing jumble of scrub. The relief. I was back in my childhood. I remembered those sorts of places. I remembered crawling and hiding and making dens, imbibing the scent of bark, scraping my knees. I started to cry. 
    We entered the estate on foot through an arch of intertwined deer antlers. It was like entering Jurassic Park. My heart started to thump.
    Once in, I gazed at a jungle of scrub and trees, stretching to the horizon. The shop and carpark had vanished. We were in a separate place, another dimension. 

    It was late September and the leaves were beginning to change colour. Late blackberries and bedraggled wildflowers lined the path. Then a flock of storks flew over.  I was in a dream, like I had been in Australia. I had zoomed back in time to the early days of humanity. I was in some lost paradise. I started to cry again.

    My family probably thought I was mad, but then they always had. (Or perhaps I thought I was mad.) My sister-in-law gave me a hug and a smile.

We spent several hours wandering, interacting with cattle and pigs living wild (piglets squealed in the undergrowth next to the path) and birdspotting on the wetlands. 

These cattle and pigs are old breeds, close to the original wild species. Both went about their business, completely ignoring us.

At last we had to leave the rewilded area to cross to the final part of the estate. We walked up a perfectly respectable path lined with trees but for some reason we all sped up and began walking with purpose.
    ‘How peculiar,’ I said.
    ‘Yes,’ said Frog. ‘The “dawdle factor” has gone.’
    He’d put it perfectly. For a dyslexic, he certainly had a way with words.
    I was bereft. Dawdling had felt good. Was this what humanity had lost?

In the next portion, the park in front of the house, we found wild ponies and a flock of red deer. The grass was short, presumably because of the two sorts of grazers, and even though I heard the mating call of a stag for the first time in my life, the magic had gone. We were too close to civilisation perhaps.

A stag in rut. We kept at a safe distance.

Both Danny and I were inspired however by the visit. He resolved to rewild his farm (which wasn’t his main source of income) and I resolved to rewild my quarter of an acre of garden. The day at Knepp had changed us both.

In our relationship Frog and I were stuck, but the outside world had found a way forward. Maybe we could too.

To be continued

9.3 Our Beautiful Monster

This is an instalment of an autobiographical series. For more information and a list of instalments so far, see right.

A troupe of puppies, their coats a mixture of colours and patterns, tumbled over an assault course of planks and bricks while Frog and I watched them. We were outside a cottage in the wilds of Central Devon’s farming country.
    A large brown and white springer spaniel emerged from the cottage and planted herself next to us.
    ‘I think she approves of us,’ I said to Frog.
    ‘I think that too,’ he replied.

Both Frog and I were more disturbed by Penny’s death than we had been by that of Brindle. Penny had been taken from us prematurely and it was horrible to think that she might have been poisoned. What must she have suffered?
    I tried to walk without her but it wasn't the same. My back went and I spent a lot of time lying on the sitting-room floor in pain and misery.
    Six months after Penny's death I was in the village seeing the physiotherapist about my back.
    ‘I don’t suppose you’re interested in a puppy,’ she said. ‘The sister of the practice nurse has some that need homes. They’re an accident, a mixture of her springer spaniel and the farm collie next door.’
    That had to be a sign, I thought. All the best animals came to you, rather than the other way round, and perhaps a new dog would heal me.

There was only one female left as all the others had been spoken for, and we wanted a female of course. She was outrageously pretty, white and black and spotted like a dalmatian. She watched us as she scampered up a plank, as if making sure she had our full attention.
    The next day, after a night to check our decision, we fetched her. She howled as we took her from her family but as soon as we stopped in a layby and let her out on to the grass (on a lead) she scampered off nose to the ground, intent on exploring her new world.
    The family had named her Lauren, which was a sweet name but not easy to call (and I expected to be doing a lot of calling), so we named her Ellie instead, after the owner.

Ellie, just arrived

I’d forgotten how appalling puppies were, and Ellie was particularly bad.
    She had sharp little teeth which she wasn’t afraid to use, so I had to wear wellies at all times in the house in order to protect my legs, and throw handfuls of tiny dog treats on to the floor to distract her.
    We decided to attend a series of puppy parties at the vet’s so that Ellie could learn to be with other dogs and we could learn how to deal with her. At the first party however, she grabbed all the toys and piled them up under a chair, growling at any of the other puppies who approached.

Guarding a bone

Outside she immediately revealed her sheepdog heritage by tearing off after any woolly creature she saw in the distance, rounding up flocks (if I hadn’t caught her in time) and driving them from one side of a field to another.
    As she grew slightly older and bigger, she tried to do the same with me, running in a circle around me, snapping at my legs. I called it ‘going wolf’ as I could see her transform in an instant from tame to wild, good to bad. It usually happened on windy days in wide open spaces like the middle of fields, and in some ways I sympathised with her because I probably felt something similar myself. I couldn’t stop her however and I couldn’t catch her and I feared that one day she might seriously injure me.
    Frog and I decided that both we and Ellie needed the individual attention of trainer.

I still had a bad back but I don’t think the trainer understood that. I think she simply thought I was rather useless.
    ‘She’s a PhD dog, you know,’ she said. ‘Not an ‘O’ level one.’
    Frog and I nodded in complete agreement with her.
    ‘And how much time out walking are you going to be giving her?’ she asked. ‘She won’t manage with just a trip round the block.’
    ‘Two hours a day,’ I replied, that being my usual dog-walking time and the amount I needed.
    The trainer looked surprised.

With regard to Ellie’s tendency to ‘go wolf’, the trainer said, ‘You’re going to have to get on top of this, otherwise you’ll have a problem dog and then you’ll have to pass her on to someone who can control her.’
    The trick she said was for me to keep Ellie on a long lead at all times when we were out. When she started circling I had to stamp on the lead and work my foot up it till I was as close as I could be to the snapping jaws. This should leave only a few inches of lead and make it possible for me to immobilise her. Then, keeping my feet planted on the lead, I had to take hold of Ellie by the collar under her chin and keep her head still until she calmed down (and switched back into domestic-dog mode). Which could take some time.

    We practised during the training session, but back home on my own I was terrified because I could see that it would be dangerous to get it wrong. I knew I had to do it however because of what the trainer had said, and I did, first time. I was proud of myself.

Once Ellie had finished her course of injections and could go out in public she acquired another delightful trait, or series of traits.
    Because she was so pretty she gained a lot of attention. Men and people with dogs tended to leave her alone but everyone else fondled and cooed.
    Ellie would play up outrageously, rolling on her back and pretending to be sweet. She could spot a likely person at a hundred yards and would trot towards them imperiously. Frog and I called these people her ‘victims’.
    Often she would tag along with complete strangers, obviously thinking that they were a far better bet than we were. We would then have to retrieve her with profuse apologies.

    When people stopped making a fuss of her she would nip their hands in order to show who was boss. Not everyone appreciated that.  
    It was hard to train all this out of her because it was the people we had to train as well. We thought about getting a harness for her with a message on it that read something like, ‘Beware. Femme Fatale. Please ignore.’

It was tough going, and my back still hurt, but as Frog said, ‘She’s a monster, but she’s our monster, and we’ll do our best by her.’

Our beautiful monster at one year old

In any case, far bigger things were happening out in the world.

To be continued

9.2 Spiritual Healing, Affirmations and Being an HSP

This is an instalment of an autobiographical series. See right for more information and a list of instalments so far.

‘Will we actually be doing any healing this session?’ I asked.
    I was butting in, I knew that, but Stephanie had been talking for half an hour about her psychic experiences and the session was only an hour long.
    I think she was trying to convince me of the reality of healing and her credentials as a healer, but I didn’t need either.
    I’d had enough experiences of my own to convince me that the material world was only the beginning, and I’d already had elsewhere sessions of healing, or ‘spiritual’ healing as it was sometimes called.

    I don't know if the sessions achieved anything but they'd always been relaxing and enjoyable. Sometimes I’d felt heat and sometimes nothing and, because the healers  hadn’t touched me directly but simply moved their hands over my body, slightly above it, the experience had been pain free and non-invasive.

    Stephanie herself came with endorsement.

    I’d become slightly deaf eight years earlier and now wore hearing aids (‘What don’t you want to hear?’ asked Louise Hay, the answer of course being my parents.) I attended regular hearing clinics at a local NHS health centre, an extraordinary place more like a mini hospital for non-urgent problems than a GP surgery. While waiting one day I’d discovered a (non-NHS) complementary health wing and Stephanie was one of the practitioners.

    So here I was.

Since my middle-of-the-night revelation, I’d worked my way through You Can Heal Your Life, chapter by chapter, each day typing out a list of affirmations and taking them with me on my walks so that I could practise them. I did a lot of crying both while reading the book and while reciting the affirmations to myself, but I knew from what Cheryl had said that this was because the words were hitting home. I was a word person, so I now had an effective and appropriate tool on my healing journey.
    Stephanie, I hoped, would show me others and cast some magic over me.

She did stop talking eventually that day and I continued seeing her weekly for several months. (Even so, she still talked too much, and I still had to butt in.) I didn’t have physical sensations during her sessions but my mind wandered into sky-like spaces, coming back with treasures. One of them was the certainty that I needed to stop drinking alcohol.
    Not only was I suffering from near constant migraines, but I also felt hungover most of the time. The two ailments were similar but not identical so sometimes I would be suffering from one, sometimes the other, and sometimes both at once. I’d cut my alcohol intake down to half a glass of wine a night, but I still felt ill.
    So I listened to that prompting and stopped my nightly dose of oblivion, and the fact that that was how I saw it was probably message enough that the stuff was doing me no good. Stephanie’s healing simply pushed me over the edge.
    I missed the alcohol dreadfully, but persevered.

Occasionally Stephanie asked me about myself and one day, because of what I answered, recommended a book called The Handbook for Highly Sensitive People, written by Mel Collins, a friend of hers (cue another long story).

At the beginning of the book was an exercise called ‘Are you a Highly Sensitive Person’. This was a list of twenty-two questions, such as whether I felt overwhelmed in groups of people, whether I was affected by other people’s moods, whether I often felt deeply hurt, whether I had used alcohol, drugs or food as a coping mechanism, whether I struggled with self-love, whether I was a perfectionist and highly conscientious, whether I was deeply concerned about social and environmental problems.
    I answered yes to every question but one, which read, ‘Do you feel you struggle to find the right relationship or have a history of “failed” relationships because your partner doesn’t understand your sensitivity?’
    I didn’t tick that because I had Frog, didn’t I?
    ‘Don’t you think you ought to tick that one too,’ said Frog gently when I showed him the page.
    Oh, I thought. Does that mean he doesn’t understand me or that our relationship has failed, or is he including Brian and my parents in that? In which case the answer would certainly be yes.
    Whichever, the fact that Frog wanted me to tick that box, was simply another spur. I had to continue the process. I had to stop thinking that everything was all right really.

    The relevance of the questionnaire was something of a shock.

    

I skimmed the rest of the book, arranged in two main sections entitled ‘Self-help Strategies’ and ‘A Spiritual Perspective’, as most of the recommendations were avenues I was already exploring and I tended to get overwhelmed by other people’s systems, preferring to find my own with gentle nudges from elsewhere. (Another HSP trait?)
    What the book did do however was give me a reason for why I was like I was and permission to carry on in what I thought was an abnormal way. For instance, needing large amounts of time alone in nature, needing days to recover from social occasions, avoiding people in general unless I really trusted them, never watching The News on television if I could help it.
    And it showed that I could appreciate, even love, myself even though I found it so hard to fit in - especially with my family.
    Although HSP was not an official diagnosis, like newly recognised adult ADHD, it was helpful to know that I wasn’t either damaged or wrong. Not that I would ever have said anything about being an HSP to anyone, except someone I recognised as being another, as they would have thought (I imagined) that I was being highly pretentious.

‘Learn to share your amazing qualities of empathy, compassion, creativity, healing and much more with the world so that you can lead the happy fulfilling life you deserve,’ proclaimed the book's blurb.
    Well, I wasn’t anywhere near that yet, but I was on the way, I hoped. And I had plenty of time as Frog and I were only in our mid-sixties. We had another twenty years to go, didn’t we?
    Meanwhile, we had an addition to the family and she certainly wasn’t an HSP. Oh dear.

To be continued