Crutches And Roses

The Alpha (my husband) tore a muscle in his calf while playing tennis at Queens last night. The wonderful staff managed to bundle him into a taxi and he spent the rest of the evening with my frozen, organic peas wrapped around his leg. He is unable to walk and under strict instruction to rest the leg as much as possible. I am now his carer to a certain extent and that’s fine, till death do us part and all that. It’s fine except that he’s rather fastidious, that said,  I must admit this makes us a good match because I could quite easily have run to slobby were it not for his high(er) standards.

This morning the extent of his incapacity became apparent, so I left him in bed scouring the internet for a local mobility shop while I went downstairs to make the first of his cups of tea, Earl Grey, quite milky, one sweetener, well stirred etc etc, job done. I then faced the challenge of making his porridge, quite sloppy, stevia sweetened with sliced, fresh strawberry. I’d received instructions on making sure I selected a good quality strawberry. At this point I’d shown remarkable self-restraint as my usual response would have been either  “make it yourself” (clearly not an option) or “actually I was going to pick a mouldy one out of the bin, roll it around the floor a few times and then let the dog lick it “. Does he think I’m trying to poison him?  There’s clearly a trust issue here.

We then set off for the mobility shop with him using his trusty seven iron as a crutch. I love shops like this. The staff are great. They are friendly without being pushy and they really know their stuff. I couldn’t resist trying out one of their recliner chairs while the Alpha was selecting his crutches. I tell you what though, those chairs are amazing, super comfy with a reclining action smoother than a First Class British Airways plane seat. They come in a range of fabrics apparently, all of them sponge clean I’ve no doubt. Not quite yet methinks.

Crutches selected and paid for (they come in pairs) we made our way back home. The Alpha settled himself into his study to work and I was tasked with “toast and coffee please.”. Ok, so toast done, not too much butter but lots of Marmite. Should I cut it or leave it whole? Definitely cut, it shows more effort. Coffee, purple capsule, milky, sweetened etc etc. Sorted!! I delivered the requested order to the study whereupon the Alpha peered suspiciously into the coffee “Did you stir it?”. I went for a walk.


The day before this latest development I went to Oxford Street to begin the trawl for a new sofa. First port of call was Selfridges, apparently they no longer sell furniture so I tried to take arty shots of the escalators instead.  Next stop John Lewis, sat on many sofas and felt overwhelmed or should that be underwhelmed by a sea of beige. Liberty next, aesthetically gratifying but I want comfort, serious comfort. I’ve been too concerned with the aesthetic in the past, “ooh isn’t that bolt- upright, blush pink sofa in the skin-chafing linen gorgeous!” No, this time it’s full on slobbing I want, but it wouldn’t hurt if the sofa could look nice as well.

I decided to pop into the flagship store of one of my favourite designers. Big mistake. I must explain that I was, at this point, probably a bit dehydrated and I had been bobbing up and down on sofas all day. I had also taken the dog for a walk first thing and so my coat was possibly a bit more mud splattered than is normal for a London store, but still. The door was opened by two burly bouncers and I was met by the store assistant. I wandered around feeling a little disconcerted by the irritating over-designedness of the place. It was all grey, polished concrete and confusing mirrors everywhere. The clothes are all artfully suspended on massive chains that hang from a cavernous ceiling. The annoying little shop assisstant was following me around the whole, time stilling the stupid chains every time I touched a piece of clothing. I went upstairs where I know they hide their sale stuff. Guess what?  No prices. Is that even legal in the UK???  No, you have to ask the tiresome little man the price and he takes out his Star Trekkie laser thingie and zaps the bar code. I left. Do they want to actually sell their clothes?


I fled to a place of sanctuary, a place where the staff are lovely, the carpets soft and there’s chocolate. Fortnum and Mason.  Reader, I consoled myself with roses.




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