Saturday, 30 April 2016
Saturday 0519. My bedroom door opened. I woke to a voice saying "I'm on my way." Still in bed and barely awake I hugged my dear friend and tried in the few seconds available to convey the depth of my gratitude for his care, help and support over the last three weeks. Then he was gone: the house silent. I was alone. David and Molly The Dog are on their way back to their life in the diagonally opposite corner of Scotland. Thank you Deborah for the loan of your husband.
I lay contemplating life, the universe and everything and why the answer was, or is, 42. I realised that, to all intents and purposes, I was likely to be on my own for the first time since January.
I rose and made a cup of hot water and lemon and marvelled at the sunrise:
I will miss the banter, the daily coffee and crossword at The Woodlands and the help: I haven't lifted a finger or even cooked a meal since I left the hospital nine sleeps ago. I will miss the fact that I've had a chauffeur on call. I will not be allowed to drive for over four weeks at the earliest.
Many equate being on one's own with being alone. That's not always the case and I'm always conscious of how fortunate I am that it isn't for me. I love company and my house is always open home to friends and visitors. However I don't think that I was actually designed (without meaning to start any deep philosophical discussion) to live with anyone. After all I'm pretty sure that I wouldn't want to live with me so why should I think that someone else might? In any case having lived on my own for 16 years I've grown far too set in my ways.
So as David, Molly and The Beast make their way out of Stornoway Harbour and sail into a beautiful morning and a Calmac breakfast I shall break out the yoghurt, eat some strawberries, make toast with Marmite and peanut butter, take my tablets with Red Bush Tea and count my blessings.
David and The Beast overlooking Bayble Bay