There are days, when I wonder if it hasn’t all been some
sick joke. As if everyone has conspired to convince me that I have prostate and
bone cancer. How can that be when so many others say I look well? What am I
supposed to look like after a big blast of radiotherapy to my back and chemical
neutering with female hormones? “I have no thermostat” I told a friend, “women
go through this but it looks like I’m permanently stuck with it”. The hot
flushes break out day and night, but thankfully don’t last long. I’ve grown
used to them; opening my clothing at the neck, turning my head to one side and
flapping my shirt to dispel the heat rising from my chest. Some jest that I’ll
be needing a bra, but thankfully, as a man who was never really turned on by
big tits, I remain firmly flat chested. I have once again returned to putting
most of my aches and pains down to old age and either, trying to do too much,
or simply doing something I haven’t done on a regular basis. I even manage to
convince myself that the pain, or as I prefer to put it, “discomfort” in my
back is most likely just indigestion and will pass.
So why, all things being considered do I look and feel so well? It has a lot to do with being back in my own home at 17 New Tolsta. I returned on the 3rd of May, and was thankful that the intense emotions I had been feeling for my home did not result in anything more than that pleasant feeling of being welcomed into a space that is me. Outside the splash of brilliant colour from the tulips and the gorse I had planted across the way said it all. I have since then been busy in the garden as well as framing the needlework pictures I stitched over the winter months. I resumed my familiar rhythm of life, and was grateful that the weeds were still at a stage where I could manage their control. Thankful also that it remained dry and possible to be seated on the ground while clearing the vegetable patch for planting. Digging was kept to a minimum and I already have potatoes, broad bean, beetroot, brassicas and mange tout peas up and growing. The strawberries are in full flower under plastic as are two courgette plants and three cherry tomato plants. The rhubarb has been excellent and a good exchange for neighbours eggs, while the currents look like they will be producing a bumper crop. It has always baffled me why people are so willing to be wedded to supermarkets and yet with plenty of good growing ground they complain about rising prices. Although I’d missed the first abundance of spring daffodils, there was, and will be plenty to follow. While working in the garden I’ve also noticed an increase in nesting birds now that next doors cat has gone. Young thrushes having left the nest too soon call out from the undergrowth to be fed, while the cuckoo has been as vocal as ever, perching on the corner post of the garden fence, from where he commands a view over the crofts and out across the valley to the high ridge and moorland.
The one big difference to previous years is that I am no
longer cutting peat. One of my first jobs on arrival was to rebuild both ends
of my peat stack, which had collapsed over winter. For now, and for a few more
weeks I’ll burning the remainder of the previous year’s peat stack. I’ve given
little thought to how the house will function without peat, and perhaps I am
like that ostrich with its head in the sand, or should that be peat. Just as
I’ve crossed the Garry Bridge to cut peat for the past fifteen years, I will
cross that particular fuel or Energy Bridge when I come to it. For now while
the peat lasts life is good and I count only on today.
