Very merry earwax

I'd planned to visit my parents in Cornwall earlier in December, but a cold meant I had to cancel. 

It felt wrong not to see them at Christmas.  They must be longing to see me.

But how could I leave my own home with Christmas approaching like an express train?  (Express sleigh?)  My teaching has continued late this year, and I'm a little behind.

But then, however much time and effort I put in, would I ever be ready for Christmas?  I never do get the house as smart as I would like. And there's always one last card that didn't get delivered, one last elusive gift that would have made somebody's Christmas perfect. 

So I bought a ticket for a flying visit to Truro anyway.  Then I picked up the phone - I could just imagine my parents' smiling faces.

'I'm coming! Arriving tomorrow afternoon!'

Long pause.

'Well, we already have a couple of engagements tomorrow afternoon - Mum's having a visit from the optician and I'm getting my ears de-waxed.  See you then, I suppose. Goodbye. '

As I said, it will be good to bring my parents joy at Christmas, even if not as much joy as the optician or the wax-removal lady.

I don't have any Christmas photos yet this year so thanks to Mary Bee for the above.

The one good thing about an eight hour drive

I visit my parents in Cornwall as often as I can.  I seem to be good at choosing a time to drive down, but bad at picking a moment to come back. 

My last two homeward journeys have been interrupted by crashes on the M5.  (I haven’t investigated to discover the nature of the accidents – I don’t want to know.)

Each time, Google maps has routed me across country to the A303.

I have travelled through thatched hamlets on narrow tracks that appeared to have been adopted only recently by the council.  I have followed a caravan which was perilously scraping the hedges on both sides.  And then I have ground to a halt detained by a new traffic jam created by all the other drivers who have been following Google’s whimsical advice.

I have often felt that Google is toying with me.  Perhaps even that my cross-country struggles are being observed by some super-villain at the heart of an IT hub, cackling “Mwah-hah-hah!”

But if there is one thing that has made the massive detours worthwhile, it is the moment on the A303 when, from around a hillock appears the magnificent, square-shouldered grey monument of Stonehenge.  It lifts my heart with its ancient presence, and the engineering achievement it represents makes me proud to be British.

Which is just as well, because if Brexit goes through, we’ll be right back to the Stone Age.

Shed Roof

Mum and Dad are very independent and are still doing jobs in the house and garden that I would either put off or pay somebody else to do. 

Usually, my offers of help get turned down and I feel I haven’t been terribly useful, apart from driving them on outings.

But last time, I was more insistent and instead of rejecting my offer at once, I could see Dad turning it over: “There is one thing…”

“Good,” I thought.  “Maybe a little weeding in the garden or a touch of spring cleaning in the house.”

 “…The shed needs re-roofing.”

My heart sank.

The garden shed was a large one – ten foot by five.  It was nearly as old as me (i.e. old) and was gradually attaining a rhomboidal profile as it sagged over the years (unlike me, I’d like to point out).

Was re-roofing even feasible?  In many places, the wood was rotten.  Inside lived scary, poisonous false widow spiders.

“That’s fine Dad.  How are we going to do it?”

“Like I’ve done it the last two times.”  He produced a large plastic tarpaulin and together we hauled it over the shed roof. 

He then handed me a rather small staple gun and it was my job to ping in the six million staples needed to attach the tarpaulin round the eaves. 

The staple gun jammed on every tenth shot and nipped my fingers as I fought with it.  The sun came out and made me sweat in the long-sleeved top I’d donned against the spiders.

But when I finally screwed the guttering back into place, I had a definite feeling of satisfaction – this time I really had been useful.