I had been quietly congratulating myself on my time management skills. Pride, as they say, comes before a fall.
my Fall from Grace. Usually it is Wednesday which is our weekly Piccadilly Circus Day but, in fact, for various reasons I won’t go into now (not because I have anything to hide, simply that it might be a bit of a boring story. And the Daily Blog tries
very hard never to be boring) it was a fairly easy day; Piccadilly Circus had quietened down by the relatively early time of 11.15 a.m. Today, on the other hand, was quite another matter.
What on earth possessed me to book the gas service, a visit by the special care dentist and the collection of no longer needed equipment by the National Resources Centre all on the same day? Especially as I should have known to factor
in the carer’s usual hour plus a scheduled visit by the District Nurse to take a blood test (well, it is coming up for Halloween, don’t you know?) and to dress Mr B’s toe (don’t ask, you really don’t want to know.)
The special care dentist centre phoned early on to say that the dentist was proper poorly and so Mr B’s appointment would have to be rearranged. Could it be that she
had somehow received prior warning that it was going to be another Piccadilly Circus day at ours and she might do better to stage a strategic retreat? Well, that was one problem deferred for another day when, hopefully, I might plan things better.
Everyone else decided to turn up at the same time. Dave from British Gas was kind enough to phone before arrival and was happy to turn up three quarters of an hour later.
This, he admitted, was good for him as it enabled him to catch up on some of his paperwork and snatch a crafty cuppa in a local café. I do like it when a person reassures me that I haven’t inconvenienced them one little bit, rather that I had
done them a favour.
The trouble is that I always underestimate how long an appointment will take. Only last week when Steve came to clean my oven, I had completely
forgotten how long it would take him to transform my cooker from grimy to gleaming. When he was still with us after two hours, I had to completely rethink my plans for our dinner. I never learn, though. So today I was thinking that Dave the Gasman would only
be with us around an hour, rather than the two and a half hours it took to service both our boiler and our gas fire. Bless him, he did take time to answer a number of questions that had been troubling me and checked that I had correctly set our new carbon
monoxide monitors (I had. More by luck than judgement.)
My favourite part about having the gas fire serviced is when the engineer lights a smoky flare, shuts the
doors and we go outside to see if the smoke is coming out of the chimney: “Let’s see if a new Pope has been elected!” says Dave - and I go out into the back garden with him because, as you know, I never like to miss out on any fun. Even when
it is only Smoke Related.
Much, much later, peace is eventually restored to Piccadilly Circus. The equipment on loan to us has been collected; the boiler and gas
fire are judged A1 for another year; the vampire, sorry, the District Nurse, has drawn blood from Mr B at the third time of trying; the dentist has booked to visit on another day.
Mr B and I settle down to read together our latest book, England cricketer Marcus Trescothick’s autobiography “Coming back to me.” It is a searingly honest account of the emotional storm which beset him, at the height of his renown
as one of England’s greatest cricketers, sending him spiralling into a despair which led to his international retirement.
Honestly, what have I been whingeing
and moaning about? Marcus’s desperate fight to recover some form of normality shows me I have nothing, absolutely nothing, to complain about.
Piccadilly Circus is just a Walk in the Park.