Big Pants

I’m sure the bloke with the ponytail that works in the Lawns Café in Hove thinks I’m a bit soft in the head. He stands there watching me each morning battling against the 40mph winds blowing in my face, the freezing sea mist and that fine rain that goes right through you, as I make my way along the wide promenade that runs between Hove Lawns and the beach towards his café which is sensibly positioned with an open counter facing east, butted up against the multicoloured beach huts and protected from the prevailing winds and precipitation.

 

He must wonder why I bother, particularly as I have to pass at least two other cafes to get to him. Well there a few reasons actually. Firstly, they do serve really nice coffee, in a mug, which is good. Secondly they also stock Lizzie’s Millionaire Slice bars, of which I am particularly fond, but the main reason is that his esteemed establishment is, according to the app on my phone, almost exactly 5000 steps from my home.

 

So, my making my way each morning to the Lawns Café and back I am guaranteed to get my full quota of 10000 steps a day which I set myself as a target as part of my recuperation from my recent operation. But despite the fact I have made the journey almost every day for the last two weeks, we still go through the same routine.

 

“Morning, what can I get you?” he asks politely, but with no other recognition.

 

“Morning buddy, how you doing? An Americano coffee please, black, no sugar. And a Millionaire Slice. Rotten day again.”  I try to engage…

 

“Want milk with that?”

 

Now if there is one thing that boils my blood, as I have revealed in these pages previously, is being asked if I want milk in an Americano. This is a coffee that is made with just an espresso, topped up with hot water. No milk. Ever. I don’t care if it’s cow’s, almond, soya or whatever, there is no place for milk in an Americano.

 

“No thanks, just black, no sugar.”

 

But he asks me the same question every sodding day, and nothing else. You might have thought he’d recognise me by now?  The fella with the black Berghaus jacket and tartan scarf that pitches up at about the same time every morning and orders the same black Americano coffee and a biscuit. Maybe it’s a wind up? It’s not as if they are overly busy at the moment. It’s out of season, and the weather lately has been diabolical. There’s never a queue and nobody sat at the tables and chairs behind the windbreak alongside the café. In fact when I arrived one day this week, the only other customer would appear to be the random dog, as shown in the photo below, who obviously hadn’t read the “dogs must be kept on a lead” signs which feature at regular intervals along the promenade.

 

So he prepares the coffee, piping hot, and hands it across the counter, and every day, before I can wrestle it from his grasp, he’ll say:

 

“Did you want milk in that?”

 

“No.”

 

“Sugar?”

 

“No.”

 

And with that he takes my fiver – yes five English ponds for a coffee and a glorified biscuit – and instantly retreats back away from the counter to the comparative warmth by the tea urn and the coffee machine, leaving me to take my pick from the vacant plastic chairs. After a short sit down I’ll return my empty cup, wish him a pleasant day, get nothing in reply, and head off back towards home.

 

I might not enjoy much in the way of witty repartee with old ponytail, but I wonder if he misses me on the odd day I don’t turn up, leaving him with only stray dogs to attend to?

 

Well, Wednesday was just such a day. A parcel that I had been eagerly awaiting finally arrived by courier. It was a new pair of swimming trunks. I may have lost about 4” off my waist in the last few months, but these weren’t smaller, they were Big Pants which are specially designed for people in my current situation, good and baggy with a very high waist. It was over four weeks since the operation, so we thought it was time to get back in the water at the pool at our local David Lloyd, under the watchful and protective eye of the Blonde. I felt quite nervous, self-conscious and anxious to begin with – I didn’t swim for very long and thoroughly checked myself after each length to ensure everything was still intact, but it was a success and another milestone.

 

After getting dried and dressed, in one of those discreet little cubicles that are thoughtfully provided in the changing rooms, I met up again with the Blonde in the corridor and we decided to grab a celebratory drink and a snack in the cafeteria upstairs as this was a big deal for me.

 

The girl at the counter greeted me with a cheery smile, and asked what we would like.

 

“An Americano please.”

 

“Did you want hot or cold milk with that? she asked……

Sunday Best

Back in the early to mid seventies at least once a month I would go to my nan’s for Sunday lunch. It was always served on the dot of 2.30, which was perfect timing as before we sat down to nan’s roast beef, my Uncle George, Uncle Alf and myself would meet in the saloon bar of The Malden Arms in Kentish Town for a few pre-lunch light-and-bitters at 12.30. There would be the usual crowd, all blokes, standing at the bar, and all in their “Sunday best” listening to Matt Monroe on the juke box and ensuring a last round was secured literally seconds before the last bell rang at 2pm.

 

George was a coalman by trade, so spent most of his working week covered in thick black coal dust, and Alfie worked on the vegetable barrow of our family’s market stalls, so his work clothes would generally be covered in potato dust where he’d been lugging 50lb netted sacks of potatoes on his shoulders.

 

But Sunday lunchtime was a different matter. My uncles and their peers would all be dressed immaculately for their trip to The Malden. Perfectly shined shoes, white shirt and tie, a sharp suit and a Crombie coat in the winter. Their hair would be styled with Brylcreem and Old Spice aftershave was liberally applied. Of course being in my late teens I wasn’t expected to follow suit, but my usual attire of a tie dye t-shirt and purple loon pants would be frowned upon – I had to dress respectfully and smartly too.

 

I like the fact that they instilled in me the importance of dressing appropriately for an occasion or venue. Although things were becoming a little more relaxed as I approached my retirement, throughout most of my working life I wore a suit to the office, or at least a jacket and trousers, along with a tie and a long-sleeved shirt. It’s a well-known fact that only coach drivers and pilots can get away with a short-sleeved shirt and a tie combination, anybody else just looks a bit of a nonce.

 

Even now, I wouldn’t dream of wearing anything other than a suit if I was attending a wedding or a funeral, and if I’m going somewhere nice for lunch or dinner for example I’ll try to make an effort. The same applies when I have an appointment to see a consultant on one of my (many) hospital visits. Maybe not a collar and tie, but at the very least smart jeans, clean shoes and a nicely pressed shirt. It just boils down to respect – I see too many people pitch up to see their surgeon or consultant in scruffy dirty clothes that I wouldn’t wear if I was doing the gardening. Not that I’ve got a garden, but you get my drift.

 

That is particularly so when seeing Mr Jeremy “Gucci Belt” Clark, as I did on Monday. He always looks the bee’s knees and I try to look the part too. Sadly however, on Monday I had to allow my own standards to slip ever so slightly, even though I had a very good excuse. It wasn’t quite three weeks since my bowel surgery, so I was still a little sore in places, plus of course my new friend who accompanies my everywhere (for the next three months at least) rather prevents me from pulling on the old skinny jeans for a while.

 

At least the tracksuit bottoms that I was reluctantly wearing instead of my 511s were easy to slide down to enable Mr Clark to examine his handiwork as I lay on the examination table in his office. He had a good prod and a feel and pronounced that everything looked perfectly fine. But before he finished his examination, he rather took me by surprise with an unexpected comment:

 

“By the way Bill” – we’re on first name terms now, I like that – “I didn’t tell you, did I? It started out at about 8 or 9 inches but it shrivelled down to just 5cms.” Even his nurse turned and gave me a funny look. I blushed and so did she.

 

“Sorry Jeremy?”

 

“The diseased part of your bowel that I cut away. It only looked about 5cms long on the scans, but once we had removed it and examined it, we could see that stretched out it would originally been almost 9 inches long – that’s how twisted and wrapped around itself it had become. No wonder you were in so much trouble; good job we got to it when we did.”

 

Good job indeed. I thanked him yet again for everything he had done for me. But I couldn’t help but wonder, as I pulled up my trackies and tied the cord around my waist; if he dresses so immaculately throughout the week, what on earth does he wear on Sundays, and does he have a “Sunday best” Gucci belt?

 

The Undisputed King

By the time I got home from hospital Sunday before last I was already starting to eat “normal’ food, but still keeping clear of anything that could upset the old tummy, especially over fibrous foods such as leafy green vegetables and anything too spicy. Naz’s chicken vindaloo would have to wait just a bit longer. But I knew that I had lost a lot of weight over the preceding few weeks, which was confirmed when I stepped on our bathroom scales. I weighed in at just 84k, which in old money is just over 13 stones. I’m 6’5” tall, and although according to the BMI calculator on the NHS website that puts me is the middle of the “healthy” range I knew that was far too low. Seeing myself in our full-length mirror, standing there in my stripey pyjama bottoms and no top was evidence of that. My ribs and collar bone were protruding, with spindly bingo-winged arms; I resembled one of those poor souls that were liberated from the camps by the allied forces after WW2.

 

I felt weak too, and I knew that was a situation that needed to be addressed. The clock is ticking until I see Dr Westwell for our appointment on 5^th April. So I have under three weeks in which to get myself sufficiently match-fit to convince her that I am strong enough to go back on the Pembrolizumab, aka JJ, that same afternoon, and continue the good fight against Bastard Cancer, which has been sidelined to some extent recently, but still always foremost in my thoughts.

 

The exercise programme, which, until I’m given the all-clear to resume more strenuous activities such as swimming and golf, consists of walks of increasing length along Brighton seafront, is coming along, and to put weight on I’ve been given virtual carte-blanche to eat all kinds of naughties, like cakes, carbs, pies, crisps, sweeties and the like.

 

And, of course, biscuits. Currently no cup of tea or coffee currently passes my lips without the accompaniment of at least three carefully dunked McVitie’s chocolate digestives. But the Blonde asked me the other day, before heading off into Brighton on a shopping expedition, if I fancied something different for a change; I gave the matter careful deliberation.

 

It really was a dilemma, and no mistake. The choice in biscuits, when you stop to think about it, is absolutely massive.

 

There are two varieties to discount straight away however. First and foremost, anything remotely vegan, obviously. Also, Jaffa Cakes. Look, there’s nothing to discuss here, Jaffa Cakes aren’t even a biscuit, they are cakes. The clue is in the name, and they are spongy. Biscuits are hard and crunchy.

 

Talking of crunchy, I’m not giving fancy Amaretti biscuits house room. Perfectly fine with an espresso in a Milanese café, but not with PG tips. Far too middle-class and Waitrose.

 

Wafer biscuits are too dry, sweet and flaky. Especially horrible are the Pink Panther variety, that are specifically aimed at spinsters living alone with 8-12 cats.

 

Jammy Dodgers? OK if you are under the age of twelve. Otherwise they mark you down as a bit of a paedo.

 

Garribaldi? Known in our house as dead fly biscuits. As they taste of dead flies.

 

Ginger Nuts? There was time when I was quite partial to them, but then I saw Prince Harry’s face in one and I now I can’t unsee it and haven’t touched one since.

 

Then there is a whole raft of fairly tasteless, bland biscuits – Rich Tea (yawn), Nice biscuits, which I never know whether to pronounce Nice or Nice (boring), and worst of all Arrowroot which I am surprised they still sell. Back in the day they’d be given by pub landlords to well-behaved dogs from a special jar kept behind the bar. Even dogs turn their noses up at Arrowroot biscuits nowadays; they want low-fat, vegan, chewy, nutritious “treats.”

 

But let’s not get carried away with negativity. There are plenty of thoroughly delicious biscuits out there. Hob Nobs, Bourbon, Viennese Whirls, Scottish Shortbread (one of the very few good things to come out of Scotland apart from the A74 back to England), a particular favourite of mine – Bahlsen, Maryland Cookies, and not forgetting the humble Custard Cream…

 

But the answer that I finally delivered to the Blonde who was still waiting patiently at the door with her coat on and shopping bag in hand was more of the same please – McVitie’s Chocolate Digestives, the undisputed king.

 

 

Have Gown – Will Travel

Part of my routine each morning is reading the Times and Sunday Times on my tablet. I particularly enjoy reading the views of the columnists, especially Jeremy Clarkson who doesn’t give a flying fig who he offends, and Rod Liddle who is more right-wing than Stanley Matthews on a sloping pitch.

 

But it was another journalist, Ann Treneman’s column that caught my eye the other day. Sadly she lost her husband after a short illness recently, and was writing about her personal experiences. One phrase really struck a cord:

 

When someone is very ill, the world gets small.

 

Never were truer words written. Think about it. When life is ticking along nicely, the world is a big place with distant exciting horizons. You plan holidays, social events, buying a new television, decorating the spare room, even moving home etc. But when you or a loved one is ill all those things are forgotten. Your world becomes tiny. You worry about taking your medication on time, getting to the loo, and having the TV remote when you settle down on the settee along with your phone, iPad and Kindle as it’s such a faff getting up again.

 

It’s not just metaphorically either. You can’t travel far when you are sick, especially by foot, so your physical world becomes restricted too. But that doesn’t mean just sitting on your arse all day every day. Nowadays patients are encouraged to get up and out of bed, take a few baby steps as soon as physically possible post-op, and I certainly subscribe to that view, and needed no encouragement when I was in hospital last week.

 

Within a day or so of my operation, just as I had when I was in the Royal Sussex in November, I was taking regular slow walks up and down the corridor of the ward in my jimmys, slippers and dressing gown (that we packed by mistake from a recent trip to Ireland). It’s amazing how friendly everybody is; everyone will smile and say hello, without exception. Try doing that on your local High Street, speaking to everyone you encounter on your morning constitutional and even just saying hello, and you’d probably end up getting arrested.

 

“Morning nurse.”

 

“Morning Bill, off for a stroll again? Nice gown by the way. ‘Fota Island Hotel and Spa,’ where is that?”

 

“Cork, in Ireland. I didn’t nick it by the way…. my wife did.”

 

“How many laps are you doing today?”

 

“Dunno, see how the mood takes me, might even go off piste and check out the kitchens, make sure there’s no dodgy ingredients going in the lasagna……”

 

So here’s a top tip for you singles out there, don’t go wasting your money on Tinder or any of those dodgy dating apps, just get yourself a pair of fluffy slippers, some pyjamas and a dressing gown, and go for a stroll up and down a random hospital ward. Maybe not one where they treat contagious diseases, but you’ll get my drift. No one can resist stopping for a chat, believe me, and there are plenty of pretty nurses. Or handsome doctors, if that’s your preference.

 

I’m back home now, have been since Sunday, early days still, and my world remains limited. Walking is a tad difficult (did I mention that Gucci also fixed a hernia for me while he was rooting about last Tuesday, a bit of a Brucie bonus?).  I’m venturing out for short daily walks though, with the Blonde’s assistance, weather permitting, and pushing a bit farther each day. There is a Tracker device on my car, with an app on my phone that tells me it is parked 63m from our front door. That’s as far as I managed on day one, to the car (and back of course). On day two we got to the bench at the end of Chichester Terrace, a short breather and back. On day three I got half way down Arundel Terrace and back, a bit further each day. Eventually, and not before too long I hope, I’ll get to the end of Arundel Terrace and turn left, go another 100m to a cracking pub called the Daddy Longlegs, where I’ll need to take a break, maybe enjoy a refreshing cold pint of Moretti and walk back.

 

Fancy that, a stroll to a pub. That’ll really be breaking through the glass ceiling and then there’ll be no stopping me. It’s a big old world out there.

 

 

 

Poached Eggs On Toast

It was going so well, I could almost see the finish line. After weeks of a liquid diet and being extremely careful I’d got to the weekend; it was Saturday afternoon and the operation on my bowel that I once was dreading and now desperate to have was just three days away. I still felt totally devoid of energy and like I’d been kicked in the guts by a grumpy mule, but that was usual for me and nothing I couldn’t handle.

 

But by Saturday night things had changed and taken a massive turn for the worse. I was in great pain and I had a major case of the “runs.” That continued and deteriorated further through Sunday and Sunday night and I knew I was in trouble. I emailed Mr Jeremy “Gucci Belt” Clark’s secretary first thing on Monday to ask their advice. I was instructed to go straight to the hospital, a day earlier than intended, where I could go onto an IV drip and be closely monitored.

 

Luckily things improved slightly and the operation to cut away and resection part of my bowel went ahead on Tuesday. I was in theatre for almost three hours, although I knew nothing about it of course, and I was still very drowsy when Mr Clark came to see me in the recovery room. The good news, first and foremost, was that the operation was successful. Everything had gone to plan and he had not needed to remove my appendix or cut any further than originally intended. Even after extensive surgery there was enough bowel left to reconnect once I had healed properly, so the stoma bag should just be a temporary measure. Then, surprisingly, he told me that surgery had revealed that the root cause of all my bowel issues was now proven to be diverticular disease after all, which had been so severe at times it had caused the deformity, twisting and blocking of my colon.

 

Then the bombshell. In his opinion my bowel had dilated, infected and expanded to such a degree leading up to the operation that within as little as two days, maximum a week, if I hadn’t had the operation my bowel would certainly have burst. The pain and issues I’d experienced over the weekend was certainly the last attack my bowel could have tolerated. If I’d been at home at the time of bursting it would have resulted in an ambulance trip to the local NHS hospital, a predictable delay, emergency surgery in A&E, probable peritonitis, sepsis, organ failure, and a very good chance I would not have survived, given how weak I was. Mr Clark is not given to making dramatic pronouncements, but he made it clear that I was lucky to be alive.

 

As I’m writing this post, from my bed in the Nuffield on Thursday, my recovery seems to be going well. When I came out of the operation I had a stoma attached, a saline IV drip, an epidural, a catheter, a flowtron DVT prevention device, a blood pressure monitor, an oxygen monitor – I had more tubes coming out of me than the Northern Line. I’ve been bed bound since the operation but the epidural came out this morning and my pain relief has been downgraded to morphine (!) which means I have been able to get out of bed for brief periods, stand and walk assisted to the bathroom. I’m having wonderful treatment and have been given an indication that by  Sunday / Monday I should hopefully be comfortable enough with my stoma and well enough to go home if I continue this rate of progress, but I mustn’t rush and take things slowly.

 

And, finally, after weeks of a liquid diet I can now start to eat solid food again. Low fibre and low residue at first, and the first meal I had was on Wednesday night. Poached eggs on toast, as pictured, and I can honestly say I have never enjoyed a meal as much.