We have a few drips in places we don’t usually get drips, and the porch is an inch under water with nowhere to drain off, but other than that, we’re still standing. It’s too dark to see what’s going on out there, but when I went to bed at 21.30 last night, the wind was still shaking the house, and the walls were vibrating. Apparently, we had a severe storm alert message at some point not long after, and it didn’t help when a stray alarm went off at 04.15 this morning, waking Neil who’d only had a few hours’ sleep. (I think it was a hangover alarm, left uncancelled since Monday. According to his phone, it’s been going off every morning since.) But we’re up and about, and I have a lot of reading to do today and some mopping up later, by the looks. We’re supposed to be helping a neighbour move a heavy plant or two later and going out for an early dinner, in which case, I shall be eating very little. Why?
Not that you need to know, but I had something of a sofa day yesterday, recovering from a nasty bout of reflux that made itself apparent at 1.00 the previous morning. This happens from time to time, and I do all I can to avoid it. A fun one is not eating too late at night, which is why if anyone invites us to dinner and says, ‘Come at eight-for-half-past,’ I stare at them as though they were mad, and say, ‘Can we make it more like six? I know, but there you are. (I’ve also got the relevant pills and ointments, tinctures and poultices for this reflux thing, so no need to send advice, medical aid or thoughts, thanks. It’s one of those things.) Anyway… The point is, I wasn’t up to doing anything much yesterday, except a jigsaw on my tablet, some reading, and watching a few things on TV, while listening to the wind and rain from behind closed shutters. It’s like I missed seeing a whole day pass by, but I did pop my head into the courtyard once or twice to make sure it was still there.
Now then, there is something serious to report, because we did have something of a sad evening the one before last. Back in 19… I forget, but about 28 years ago, Neil bought me a Thunderbirds figure/doll, dressed, movable, ages 5 to 13, as a Christmas present. A bit of a laugh, something daft, but mainly because I’ve been a Thunderbirds fan since year forever. When we moved to Greece, we took Alan with us. That’s his name, for those who aren’t au fait with the classic TV series made for children aged 5 to 50 and beyond. He even joined us on the beaches on holidays now and then, and he has a voice that, when the button is pressed, says, ‘F.A.B.’ and ‘Thunderbirds are go.’ Bless. Well, on Tuesday evening, I moved him and his companions (he’s built quite a following over the years), so they wouldn’t get wet if the window leaked, and found, tragically, that one of his legs had inexplicably become detached. Not only was that a cause macabre, but the situation deteriorated when we realised he was trying to speak. With a weak, croaky rattle, like a dying Geiger counter, he grated out his last words… and wouldn’t shut up, so we put him in the laundry, there to go in peace, surrounded by his mates. The scene reminded me of ‘The Death of Nelson.’ It was very moving. He’s not going in the bin (though after 28 years, he could do with the washing machine), and I’ll find somewhere else for him when the laundry floor dries out. If it does.
