Craic On

You might imagine that the demise of taste buds would rule out a craving for food. On the contrary, not even nausea can do that, and Lord knows I feel nauseous quite a lot of the time these days. However, nausea is no match for steroids. They have the ability to create feelings of hunger that are unrivalled. I have been, quite literally, shaking with hunger. Round one of chemo, of this new and not so welcome experience resulted in industrial quantities of macaroni cheese being consumed. I would like to say that I never inhaled but it would be an un-truth. I inhaled macaroni cheese until smoke came out of my ears. The scales were brutal in their assessment of my brief addiction and I learnt my lesson. Round two led me to roast a chicken in preparation for the affects of steroids. Protein would surely dampen my enthusiasm for carbs as I lay, quivering with nausea and shaking with hunger, in my sick bed. It did not, and I found myself standing at the fridge eating hot lime pickle out of the jar. When I first went to Chemo, I was checked in by a nurse who made me stand on the scales and noted down my weight, in much the same way as check-in staff at Heathrow weigh baggage. Instead of wrapping ID round the handle of my suitcase, she wrapped in round me. If I'd been fatter than expected she'd have called for extra chemo rather than baggage handling re-enforcements. Weigh-ins have now led me to conclude I am on the cusp of a cry for “more drugs”. As she led me to my allotted spot she told me that “lots of ladies love a curry while they're on chemo”. I snorted with incredulity. Now I know what real hunger is, I'd snort the curry. This obsession with new ways to tickle the taste buds has led me to hunt the net for hot sauces and I'm not bad at making them. Thank goodness for the glut of hot chillies that languish in my freezer, along with the overflow of coriander seeds. Everything else I got in the supermarket. Curry does not do justice to the range of hot and spicey food I currently live on. I eat it for breakfast. This very morning, I consumed a spicey aubergine dish slathered in lime pickle. There is an argument for not bothering with the food preparation and just going for the pickle, but I'm keen on my five a day. All of this has spawned a lot of fart jokes. My chum the Big Cheese does a good line in fart jokes, and while most of his jokes are wincingly wide of the mark, his oh so human observations of excess wind, hit the spot. I confess that I have laughed so hard there was a risk of a slight breeze sweeping across my sofa. The BF suggested that we go the whole hog and order an Indian takeaway. I ordered hot and it was delicious. It was so delicious that I was eyeing up the leftover sauce and thinking how good that would be for breakfast, when the BF stuffed newspaper into the leftovers and threw it in the bin. I thought I showed great restraint in not coming downstairs, in the night, to get it out of the bin and eat it. Gearing up for the last chemo in this particular set of four “mother of all chemo's”, as they were so sweetly described to me, made me wonder what cravings await me. Scotch Bonnet? I'm not thinking of a tartan head covering, but I am going for growth. END Follow the Blind Truth Blog here: https://theblindtruth.co.uk/ Image is Siobhain Santry's sketch of Anna. 

“Oh Granny, What are you wearing?” said a horrified looking Grand as I showed off my beach attire. I said nothing when he elected to come to my Birthday lunch in a multicoloured tutu, rugby shirt and jeans. He might not approve of my sense of style but I admire his nerve in mixing his. He's a boy who knows his own mind and what he likes, well, he likes. We took a photo of ourselves before we sat down to eat. He had his arm around me in a loving embrace. In the picture, I looked adoringly at him. He had a bit of a smirk on his cherubic face. I've subsequently discovered that his little hand was not squeezing me in an act of unbridled affection, but he was busy pebble dashing my party clothes in giant cuscus and a really good set of oily smears that even the dry cleaner sucked in her breath at. When the post party pictures circulated, I only had eyes for the Grand. He was on form and looking pretty pleased with himself. As I sat in bed drinking my fourth litre of water of the day and feeling post chemo sorry for myself, I tried opening my phone to have just one more look at the centre of my universe. My phone was having none of it. Since my hair dropped out and my face got puffy, I am no longer a recognisable version of myself when it comes to the tech on which I have grown so dependent. Not only does it repeatedly tell me that my face is not recognised, it doesn't think that popping in my passcode is enough anymore. After so many weeks of failing to see the person I am, it repeatedly demands that I check my texts and enter the one time only pin number I'm about to receive. It could be worse I suppose. It got worse. Next it started asking me to enter the letters and numbers it sent me in response to my having entered the verification code. Since they come is a jumbled state and are impenetrable at the best of times, it didn't like my responses, which were many and incorrect, so it referred me to help desk. A ticket was raised and there was nothing for it but to drink water and wait. The Dry Cleaner said the stains have come out pretty well. Only a shadow of a handprint remains and the cuscus is history. She broke the good news the moment I presented myself at her counter. She has never known me with hair or a jawline or the ability to move faster than a sloth. She's in for a surprise sometime next year. I only hope she doesn't ask me for the secret dry cleaner password in a moment of doubt that I'm in fact there to launch a raid on dry cleaning fluid and paralyse her business for a ransom. A man I know walked straight past me in the street a couple of weeks ago. I was relieved not to have to stop for a chat, but outraged that he didn't see me. It's bad enough to be ignored by people that I want to ignore, but no one wants to be invisible. It may be that it a weird twist, those around me should get their eyes tested. They just don't know it, or are having trouble reconciling how they used to see with what they see now. After a lifetime of living in a world which is largely invisible to me, maybe, just maybe I have the edge. END Follow the Blind Truth Blog here: https://theblindtruth.co.uk/ Image is Siobhain Santry's drawing of a grey ribbon with The Blind Truth written on it.

I've been doing a bit of media lately. I've got the face for radio and I'm comfortable with it. What I can't stand is listening to myself. I don't mind the sound of my own voice when I hear it inside my head and I'm spouting about something I've got the wind in my sails about. Hearing it back as others hear it, is a different matter altogether. I might not be that easy on the ear, but it's what I have to say that matters. Lately I've been in the business of making other people famous and not for all the right reasons. It's not wind that is in my sails, although wind is yet another unwelcome side effect of the you know what. What's bothering me is that the NHS might be one of the easiest health systems in the world to access, but once you are in it, it can feel impenetrable. Let us nip smartly over the plea for cash to support my local hospice that screams from the walls of the oncology waiting room. Let us circumnavigate the confusion between condescension and compassion. We will give a wide birth to invisible signage. All of these things are a bother but the hullaballoo I want to focus on is the absolute lunacy of not communicating with people in format that works. It's no good writing to a braille reader in standard font. That's how people find themselves missing appointments, getting discharged and having to start the whole process all over again. Sending me a pdf that can only be read upside down just isn't up to the task. That's why the Accessible Information Standards have been in place since 2016. Them's the rules. Yet, you would be hard pressed to know it. You can read all about those standards on the NHS' own website . Sticking to the rules makes life easier for everyone, not just for people like me. They are widely flouted and that's what I've been talking to the press about. I wasn't expecting that I'd have to supply photos of myself as part of the deal. My friend ‘P” said she thought she could take a few when we went out for a walk. She made me stand on top of a grassy knoll that I fell asleep on last summer. It was only when I woke up I noticed the wasps nest, so I was cautious. “Oh don't be such a wuss”, she said. The same photo got used as a head shot in my local paper. It was superimposed next to a picture of a disabled parking bay, just in case anyone should miss the point that this is a story about some poor old blinky. I notice that I'm a bit pinched looking. I was probably wondering about the merits of being described as a “chairman” or how I was going to park the car I do not have. You can see what I mean. The one I enjoyed the most is the BBC Access All podcast. Emma and Nicky do a passable Jane and Fi. They were super encouraging and just a little bit naughty. I sound very earnest and a bit taken aback by the unreserved apology issued by my local NHS by way of right to reply. You can hear how uncharacteristically silent I was in response to the apology I didn't see coming. All of this will only matter if the principles of universal access to health services, at the point of need, are lived values. That means making sure that everyone can read the information we need in our hour of need. END Follow the Blind Truth Blog here: https://theblindtruth.co.uk/ Image shows multiple grey squares with 'The Blind Truth' written inside them. 

At the first sign of a swollen arm you should definitely head for help if you have had your lymph nodes removed. I did this just before chemo number one. I phoned the breast nurse. On balance, she thought it best to avoid the hospital while I was on chemo. I said I'd like to come to see her immediately after chemo happened and that's what I did. I dragged my dizzy, wobbly, walk like a drunk and feel like a drunk post chemo body round to her, to get my arm inspected. “lymphedema” she said. Then she checked with a moisture gadget. If I didn't know better I might have thought she had a second profession as a Quantity Surveyor and was about to knock me down on price because I'm old and damp. “Not that bad. You caught it early,” she offered in reassurance. I was not reassured. I fear lymphedema. I fear it because I don't want a waterlogged arm and now I've got one. We went through the exercises, and I asked for a physio referral. She told me it wouldn't be possible because it had to be bad to get a physio appointment. I scratched my head, metaphorically speaking. There was nothing for it but to face up to the new look me.  “I'll measure you for a sleeve” she said, “and a glove.” The last time I bought gloves was on a mini break to Venice when I came home with a pair of brown leather spotty gloves I didn't need. That's unless you count the fingerless woollies bought in a car boot sale. I have not one jot of interest in orange sticking plaster coloured sleeve and glove. All was not lost, there was a navy-blue option and so I went for one of each, in an effort to lean into my worst fears of the waterlogged arm and a fashion car crash all in one go. I came home with what the nurse had in her store and wore it. Lead in time is about two week but three weeks later the chemist told me they forgot to put the order through. They gave me a temporary fix to get me through chemo two. The GP said she'd re-order using another chemist but two weeks later, when the much awaited sleeves arrived they were the wrong ones. The chemist says it's the GP's mistake. The GP says it was the chemist. The temporary sleeves started rolling down to form a nice little bottle neck around my elbow and with chemo three approaching I took drastic action and decided to see a lymphedema specialist in double quick time. This necessitated a long car journey, a fat old fee, then a good talking to about the deficiencies of my current sleeve and glove arrangement. “No, no, no. This will not do at all,” Said Sylvia as she looked with horror at my crumpled surgical supports. “This is the wrong weave, the wrong size and the wrong compression.” She wrote a prescription and sent it to my GP who sent it to the online pharmacy.  And here is where it starts to get tricky. I accidentally deleted my order because the accessibility features were a bit on the challenging side. The GP hasn't quite understood my mistake and just keeps confirming the order I deleted was sent and there is nothing more to be done. I've ordered through the hospital now, but heard nothing so no idea if it's in hand. Chemo four is looming and I still don't have a sleeve. I'm seriously considering publishing my prescription in the hope that anyone who no longer needs their surgical garb could donate it.  I might have chemo brain. END Follow the Blind Truth Blog here: https://theblindtruth.co.uk/ Image is Siobhain Santry's sketch of Anna. 

The blonde bob has long since departed. Jackie, “hairdresser to the stars and your humble servant”, cut it short in an Audrey Hepburn homage. She is deluded. My friend Ranni, bought me three meters of navy blue lining cotton which I wound into a turban and practiced wearing about the house. There is a You Tube video for everything and when it comes to head coverings, I've done my fair share. I've covered a lot of ground from ultra conservative religious practices to cultural heritage and a modern twist on just about everything in between. I might be more Enna Sharples, in the resulting headgear, than “Queen” but I feel alright with that. I had a funeral to go to, so I practiced wearing my turban around the house. I jumped about a bit, shook my head a bit, read, cooked and even managed a walk in it. It stayed on and not a safety pin in sight. Then I sent a photo of myself in my turban, to those who know more about these things than me, and got the thumbs up. Thank goodness for girlfriends. Thank goodness for boyfriends. Big BUT here, because when it comes to matters like this, it's your girlfriends that count. My girlfriends have all risen to the challenge and have provided me with a trip to a scarf emporium, where I left my dark glasses on a shelf long enough to go to eat lunch in a real restaurant, and try on clothes somewhere down an escalator and round a corner, before noticing that I was no longer in possession of said dark glasses. When I retraced my steps, there they were, two hours later, just where I had left them. This says something about the honesty of shoppers or the desirability of my glasses. My friend did proffer an opinion, but I'm not convinced. Now all of this has raised a question. Even if you are wearing the most rudimentary of scarves you have to account for the slide factor. What do you do with your dark glasses if you are wearing a head covering and your normal practice is to pop your dark glasses on your head? How can your headgear accommodate your glasses? You have to opt for a head covering that offers up somewhere to tuck the arms of your glasses. I've gone for twist and tuck. I find it's perfectly possible to accommodate both readers and tints, at the same time, should I want to. The downside of this new way of doing things is that I can't feel I have my glasses on my head and I'm a bit prone to accidentally launching my specs, off my head, without clocking where they have landed. It's what you might call the crunch moment. The crunch comes once you have started to look for them. No one told me that losing my hair would feel like the discomfort of brushing your hair the wrong way. It hurts. Jackie returned with her scissors and cut what was left in an evenen close crop. They say you should “brave the shave” but I haven't. My humble servant popped round again and did her best work. I have a sort of cropped mullet. She refuses to put a razor to my scalp. The way I like to think of it, is that it provides a little grip to whatever I chose to wrap around my head and that keeps my specs safe. It's a bit like the old poem; “I eat my peas with honey. I've done it all my life. It makes the peas taste funny, but it keeps them on the knife. END Follow the Blind Truth Blog here: https://theblindtruth.co.uk/ Image is Siobhain Santry's drawing of a grey ribbon with The Blind Truth written on it.

I am not in Kansas anymore. Actually, it's fair to say that I've never been to Kansas, nor have I ever had much of an urge to go there. It's isn't covered by my railcard and getting there would definitely involve wearing compression stockings, which don't come in 15 denier. When I say that I'm not in Kansas anymore, I mean that nothing is normal, in it's place or playing out as I had expected life to play out during the course of this year.  Life has become reduced and intense, although cancer is not the first thing I think of when I wake up, or the last thing I think of before I go to sleep.  I'm always on the hunt for humour and what better way than to amuse myself than to turn the drama, which already runs like a second-rate soap opera, into a black comedy. It's not that I'm summoning the spirit of James Robinson-Justice. I've never felt the need for another encounter. “Here's sixpence, now bugger off,” he said to the six year me. I went home to ask my Mother what a bugger was. “James,” she said.  No, my capers in health are not as slapstick as Carry on Doctor, but my goodness, it's a bit of a jape. I've braved the rainbow seats in the waiting area, that nestle like teeth, on a plate that's attached to the floor, or the wall, and are just the right height to bite you in that tender spot under the knee. They herald the way to oncology which has a sound scape all of it's own, unlike the rest of the hospital that I've explored thus far. It has a sound all of it's own because it's a temporary metal building that sits on top of another temporary metal building, in order to boost capacity in the system that is creaking under the strain. I went to oncology to have a chat all about chemotherapy. I asked, “What is chemotherapy and how does it work?” “Chemotherapy is made up of two liquids. One is red and one is clear. It works by being injected into your veins.” I can't tell you my relief in getting a fuller picture. It's always good to have complete understanding of what is about to happen, even if the main event turns out to be a bit more that a colour chart. It was hot in oncology, not just under my collar, but everywhere, because it was the middle of a heatwave and nothing good can come of hanging out in a tin can during a heatwave.  It wasn't just me that was looking like poached salmon. I sat down on the rainbow seats to draw breath and that's when I noticed the large sign telling me that my local hospice needs my support because “every pound counts and every moment matters”.  I don't need a sign to remind me of this. Nor do I need a reminder that if the colour choices made on my behalf don't turn out to be a match for the cancer, it will not end well. In the meantime, I resent being asked to part with my money in order to secure a good end. Granny used to carry a pair of secreters in her handbag, just in case she spotted a flower she liked the look of, even it belonged to someone else. I considered a screwdriver but can't get close enough to the fittings without drawing unwelcome attention to myself, to work out which fitting I'd need. I'm considering spray paint but wondering if the consequences of vandalism could be worse than death. END Follow the Blind Truth Blog here: https://theblindtruth.co.uk/ Image shows multiple red squares with 'The Blind Truth' written inside them.

I'm secretly curious about what it would be like to be bald. Baldness is not necessarily the preserve of old men. I've been on line, investigating head coverings, for fear that my own imminent baldness should cause others to run for the hills. My sleuthing has revealed a world, of wigs and turbans and scarf tying lessons, that I'm now watching on repeat. I don't yet care too much about losing my hair, but I imagine that there are just some settings when covering up is the right thing to do and I might care when it happens. “You want a wig?” the woman on the other end of the phone said in a tone which was rather more of a statement that a question. “ehhh,” “What's your postcode?” “Who is this?” I asked, because no one has ever said that as a form of introduction when I answer the phone. “I'm sending you a catalogue.” “But who are you?” “You got a referral for a wig.” “But who are you?” “Well who are you?” she said. “This is Anna speaking. You called me, but I don't know who you are.” “It's me Marjorie, the wig lady. I'm sending you the catalogue. What's your address?” I asked for the link and she explained that the company don't have a website but send out catalogues. “I'm looking at their website now,” I said, after a bit of swift manoeuvring. She sent me a catalogue anyway. Wigs are affordable and modelled by people in poses and styles that look as if we are going through a 1970's revival. The wigs themselves look as if they are made of nylon and might spark if you move too quickly or pull a synthetic sweater over your head. After all this bother of surgery and chemo it would be a pity to accidentally set fire to myself. They are all in colours that I have never seen, not even in Bulgaria where I have seen some terrible home hair dye jobs. I put the catalogue in the pile of cancer gubbins and went back on line to look for something a bit more stylish. There are no end of shopping opportunities if you have cancer. There is everything from moisturisers to cooling spritzers for the face. There is at least one person, I can think of, who would happily perform the same service for free and chuck a bucket of water over me. In the end I settled for a squidgy thing to wrap around seatbelts. You never know. Someone might be prepared to drive me to a layby for a sandwich now that we are back in the 1970s. Marjorie called back to give me driving directions to the appointment I never made tomorrow at 1pm. “I'm sure I don't have an appointment,” I said. She thought the stress of cancer had made me forget and carried on with directions. “I'm blind,” I interrupted. It seemed the best way to put the brakes on things. “Then turn left,” she persisted. “I can't drive,” I said firmly. “But you've made this appointment. How are you going to get there?” “Honestly,” I said. “I can't remember making an appointment.” “Are you Heather?” she said. “No. I'm Anna.” “I've got the wrong person,” she muttered, and put the phone down. Giving up on wigs, I went to buy fabric to weave myself magnificent headgear but came home with a lampshade. I suppose I could always put that over my head. The BF, knowing my love of all things garden, sent me a link to a well-known cancer charity, from whose on-line shop you can buy a gnome. END Follow the Blind Truth Blog here: https://theblindtruth.co.uk/ Image is Siobhain Santry's sketch of Anna. 

I'm still living season 1 of my live streaming dark comedy “my left breast”.  It's a cracking little mini-series that has now been running for three months and promises to keep on running for at least another eight. I really hope that there is never a season 2. In the drama so far, I have given up a big old chunk of me that I thought I could never live without. It turns out that having a lumpectomy is a bit like having a bite out of the peach, or so I was told at the big reveal, that happened accidentally while I was getting out of the shower. Having your lymph nodes out is a bit more of a challenge. Every time I pick up a knife to chop carrots, I am met by cries of “Noooo” as my nearest and dearest lunge at me for fear I should cut myself, get an infection and die, or worse, that my arm cannot take it and swells to epic proportions that will cause me to moan.  I have given up my lifelong approach to checking the state of the blade, by running my thumb along it. The Son, even took my knife and fork out of my hands and cut up my food and removed the knife. Infection is the risk that is drummed into me at every turn. I even got given a card that says I'm a chemo patient and that should I become ill, “do not wait for blood results before administering antibiotics.” I feel like a drug Lord. I'm supposed to carry this with me at all times. It's also got an emergency help line number that I couldn't read, so a helpful nurse said she'd send it as a pdf. She was as good as her word. There was just one tiny little problem. Neither of us could rotate the document to an upright position. All of this was fine if you are skilled at reading upside down. The biggest laugh of this episode came with the arrival of the preparing for chemo video, in which three earnest nurses read the list of doom from an autocue. I particularly enjoyed the joke about remembering to use a condom. I can't remember if it came before or after the warnings about hair loss, weight gain and a nasty case of the runs. Given the likelihood of the these side effects, I'm not rushing out for prophylactics. On the upside, the video did include a flashed up copy of the emergency hot line number so I froze the screen and popped the number in my phone. The only problem was, that the number that appears on screen has an extra digit. It was the wrong number so let's hope no other bright spark had the same idea as me because they might die trying if they ever needed to call it. The nice nurse tried another approach and managed to print it out on a piece of paper that I have sitting next to me now, less I should cut myself with my own finger nail or possibly the edge of my tongue or probably the keyboard. As this particular episode of series 1 draws to its conclusion, I am not playing it for laughs any more. This is a dark comedy that has taken a turn for the worse. I only hope it's not too late to put matters right and get the script back on track. Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to hide the bodies of those who make it difficult. END Follow the Blind Truth Blog here: https://theblindtruth.co.uk/ Image is Siobhain Santry's drawing of a grey ribbon with The Blind Truth written on it.

The Halloween wig I have bought myself at a bargain price is destined for the Grand's dressing up box. Too scratchy! Yesterday I woke up to find that the short back and sides that I had a few weeks ago, were attached to my face and not to my head. This wasn't a migration of rootstock during the night, but a jettisoning of my locks, to reveal a pinker scalp than I imagined. I text Jackie, “hairdresser to the stars and your humble servant.” “Don't worry. I'm going to give you a close cut, in fact it will be so close that you are going to look like Audrey Hepburn in her younger days.” “More like Matt Lucus,” I burbled. An image of myself as a giant bonneted baby came into my mind. I had to shake myself out of it. In shaking myself out of it a bit more hair fell out. Turning myself into a second rate tribute to Audrey Hepburn in her younger days, took a good hour and then I had to get the hoover out to clean up what was now lying on the floor. On the up side, I won't need another haircut in six weeks, or even six months, so as things go, that wasn't bad value for money. “You look amazing,” said Jackie as she waxed what was left of my barnet. “I look like a man,” I said glibly. “Are you bloody blind or what?” she said wagging her hairbrush under my nose. “You do not look like a man. You look like Audrey Hepburn in her younger days.” “Come with me,” she said. Then she frogmarched me to the mantlepiece and told me to take a good look in the big mirror. Jackie, me and one of the A Team, lined up and had a serious go at convincing ourselves. Definitely, Audrey Hepburn in her younger days. Who were we kidding? I've tried it every which way: I've taken a selfie. I've put on my readers and had a good gaze. The truth of the matter is that I have no real idea of what I look like. I was explaining this to the sister who opened the fridge door and while having a good rummage said, “well you've got the same shaped head as Favourite Uncle.” Thank goodness for girlfriends with cars and twenty-twenty vision, although not necessarily their children. I was once in the car with a girlfriend when her phone rang. She answered the call on speaker. It was her son, who was calling to say he'd just seen her drive past him and wanted to know, “Who was that really really old woman in the car with you?” “It's me, Anna,” I bellowed back. The phone went down.  I never miss the opportunity to embarrass him whenever I can. His Mother went on an emergency run to the fabric shop in Turnpike Lane yesterday to buy yards of the head gear. Guilt is a wonderful thing. Whether Audrey Hepburn in her younger days or Matt Lucas, I've come to the conclusion its not that important, to know how others see me, or even how I physically see myself. It's better to know how it feels to be me without hair. I'm alright with it. What's more there are online instructions for everything and that includes variations on a turban through to how Grace Kelly wore her scarves. I'm well on my way with the turban theme and optimistic my inner Grace Kelly, is somewhere. Audrey Hepburn may be a push but I bet if I look hard enough Grace is somewhere, but possibly not in the fridge. END Follow the Blind Truth Blog here: https://theblindtruth.co.uk/ Image shows multiple grey squares with 'The Blind Truth' written inside them. 

Setting aside the demise of the blown fuse, and the kettle, before 6am. I've been to have my surgically induced fluid bubbles drained. I've been waiting for this moment since the last time I went out of the house in a state of heightened emotion and came home minus a vat of “lovely and clear” lymphatic fluid. This morning's trip out also served as yet another training opportunity for someone who needs to get their numbers up. I am happy to oblige. Today's student offered up an abundance of “bless you” and brief felicitations on the quality of my output. The electrician text me to say that he was an hour away. There was time enough for a trot to that well known emporium where end of lines can be precured at bargain prices. Kettles were not amongst them. This didn't stop me from joining the till queue with a small tin of Spanish sweet chili. When it was my turn, I put my cane down on the counter next to me and pushed the chili under the Perspex screen where it was carefully examined, it's contents read, it's barcode scanned, before being picked up for closer examination. Then something unexpected happened. Having located what remains of the curly label with it's barcode, that I never bothered to peel off and now looks like something I stepped in, the cashier tried scanning my cane. “It's a mobility aid” I said limply. “Yeah, I'm scanning it now,” she said. “It's mine.” “Yeah, I'm doing it now.” She persisted with small jabs at the cane. “It's my mobility aid. I'm not paying for it. It's already mine.” “But what is it?” she asked as she slid it back across the counter. “I can't see very much. I use it to help me get about.” As a leap of imagination goes, I don't think she found it easy to make the leap between my bundled-up cane and how this translated into anything practical. I would have to dig deep. I dug so deep I found myself in bargain basement beating a retreat. I headed to the hardware shop in the drive to boil water. Since the day I left a well-ordered stand of kitchen products on the floor, I have not returned. My reappearance went unnoticed and I settled on a blue kettle that was on clearance. At the till I slid the kettle over the counter and under the Perspex screen. I put my cane down on the counter in front of me and reached into my bag for my debit card. The cashier reached across for my cane and zapped it. “That's mine,” I said. “I'm not buying it.” “I'll clear it,” he said and carried on zapping. “No, it belongs to me. I already own it.” “Oh,” he said and looked as if he might be gearing up to ask what it was but thought better of it. “It's a cane,” I said. “I can't see. I use it to help get around. It's mine. It's my long white cane.” I know this doesn't really cover it but I wasn't in the mood for evangelism. All that zapping and cane action sparked something in my imagination. I can claim the changes that cancer keeps delivering, just like I've claimed visual impairment, as part of the patchwork that makes me, well me. In her misery at getting breast cancer, cookery writer Julia Childs offered her husband a divorce. “I didn't marry you for your breasts. I married you for your legs,” he reputedly said. Somehow, we all have to find ways to be the heroin of our lives. Not the victims. END Follow the Blind Truth Blog here: https://theblindtruth.co.uk/ Image is Siobhain Santry's sketch of Anna. 

It seems that this really is a country for old men.  Contrary to all expectations the favourite Uncle is now installed in a house round the corner. This will enable him to make a garden at my sisters and come round here with stale packets of biscuits and instant coffee while telling me tales about smoke alarms, fish sticks and moles. He has been digging flints out of the Sisters' garden in order to develop a brand new vegetable patch. In doing so he has created a superhighway for moles who have also decided to spend more time round at the Sisters enjoying the veg patch. The challenge of the moles has now become the principle occupation of the favourite Uncle, who tells me this story on repeat. I don't mind this and try to respond to each telling of it as if I am hearing it for the first time. “It's Uncle here,” he says when I pick up the phone. “I've got a very funny story to tell you about moles.” I listened to the story and when he got to the end, he wondered if he had mentioned who it was that was calling me. This morning he rang to say he was testing whether or not his phone worked by calling me. Then he told me he was popping in and had a funny story to tell me. “Good,” I said. “I could do with a good laugh because cancer is boring.” On arrival, Favourite Uncle did a thing he never does and slapped me encouragingly on the shoulder that feels like someone took a blow torch to it, thanks to recent health adventures. I winced and explained that this was the shoulder that felt as if someone had taken a blow torch to it, so best to avoid touching it. Then he did the thing he does that's designed to cover up the fact he didn't hear what I just said. He laughed and for good measure he slapped me on the shoulder again, before jetting off to put the parking permit in his car. We sat around discussing moles and drinking coffee before he said he had to go as his fish sticks were calling. I said, “Don't touch that shoulder because it feels as if someone has taken a blow torch to it.” “Jolly good,” he said and for luck, gave it a final wallop. Then I received an email about the second Favourite Uncle who has been in bed since February, but periodically comes to and asks for a roast dinner. This morning he came to and ordered Sunday lunch with all the trimmings. I called the Brother because it's his Birthday today. He went out to lunch and on his way home, fell out of his car doing a wheelchair transfer. It took three hours to drag himself into the house. This was the moment where I was probably supposed to offer up a “Bless you,” to show a bit of compassion for his misfortune, but instead I picked a fight and told him he was an idiot for not having a car and wheelchair that were suited to his needs. I suppose you might say I slapped him in just the spot where it felt that he'd been assaulted with a blow torch. The evening was spent listening to David Sedaris who is much funnier than moles or car transfer dramas or roast dinners.  Somewhat wryly he observed that in a total death toll of nearly a million from Covid in the USA, he hadn't chosen one of them, and none of them were related to him. Follow the Blind Truth Blog here: https://theblindtruth.co.uk/ Image is Siobhain Santry's drawing of a grey ribbon with The Blind Truth written on it.

There is nothing like sitting in bed in the early morning, with a pot of Earl Grey Supreme, chatting to girlfriends on the phone. I was happily doing just this when the doorbell rang. Short expletive at the prospects of being doorstepped by local politicos or evangelists. What a faff it was to haul myself into an upright position, stick the now compressed heart shaped cushion, made by the local WI and supplied by the NHS, under my arm, and totter off downstairs to the door. Halfway down the stairs the doorbell rang again. “Yes yes, I'm on my way.” On the doorstep was a member of the A Team, that much treasured WhatsApp group of girlfriends charged with seeing me through the Big C. “I thought you were coming for lunch,” I mumbled. “I did say 10.30. I've got to go to London later.” It was all bonus from my point of view. I went off to have a shower and the A Team headed for the kitchen where she made free with vases, in order to make the very best of the beautiful cut flowers from her garden. We spent the morning happily chatting about the grandchildren. Hers can speak Italian and English and interchange between the two. Mine is a boy and likes to talk about poo. The doorbell rang again. From the open door blasted the theme tune from the Archers. (That's the old tune not the new one.) I knew exactly who that was and rolled over on the sofa in a bid for a bit of momentum in order to get to my feet. There was the FF (former flatmate) and before we knew it, we were hugging and crying and rejoicing, that I am, more or less, in one piece, and she is in my kitchen, having not exactly lied her way through acres of messaging about being stuck in a train tunnel, but not exactly leading me to believe she was in a train racing towards me. In the many joys and trials of our friendship I remember when she was where I am now. That only deepens our ties. The FF is impressed by the lunch and says so. She broadcasts her appreciation of her fellow A Teamers on the Whattsapp group, along with a critique of the inside of my fridge, which she alleges horrible things about. When my fellow Granny departs the FF sets about fridge renovation. On the table is an enormous pile of fridge contents. She can't imagine why so much of what I treasure has survived so long past its sell by date. “The sniff test. “ I'm bullish on this point, but accept that there may be some preserved lemons that are no longer fit for purpose. We compromise and feeling she has luck on her side, she chances her arm. I run out of puff watch the bin fill up. Once done, she makes a short video of the inside of the fridge and broadcasts it to the A Team, along with a biting critique of what she describes as the European Vegetable Mountain that is sitting on top of the cooker. She asserts it will never fit back into the now sparkling fridge. I protest that it's all in the angle she chose to film from. She ignores me and takes the rubbish out. By teatime I can hardly keep my eyes open and make another, less energetic, bid to roll off the sofa for some kind of embrace and a bit of a blub. Whatever the humiliations of my personal habits being revealed to an unsuspecting A Team, love and friendship trumps the revelation that I am a fridge slut. END Follow the Blind Truth Blog here: https://theblindtruth.co.uk/ Image shows multiple red squares with 'The Blind Truth' written inside them.

The best things in life begin with the letter C. They include but, as manufacturers often say, are not limited to: Champagne. Pale imitations won't do. Canapes which are about the most indulgent way that people, who enjoy a good networking event, sustain themselves while coiffing the afore mentioned drink. Countryfile because I'm a country girl at heart. Cats, and here I can be even more specific and ask everyone to give it up for Clive who coincidentally has a name that begins with the letter C. Chocolate, which doesn't do it for me but I'm being generous here. Crisps, which definitely do do it for me. Cheese, that king of food. Children, who offer all the promise of what is to come and always lift the spirits. Chatter, and here I should defiantly mention friendship but that doesn't alliterate in quite the way I had in mind so I'm giving it up for Chums. It might be cheesy to say so, but there is nothing like love and friendship when the chips are down. I didn't include chips in my favourite things because I went on a twelve-step programme, in order to give them up. Other vices have persisted. When it comes to Chums, they are the tops. I'd like to change tack here a bit. I have previously mocked the rise of the Whattsapp Group. The endless offers of other people's rubbish, free to anyone who wants it, holds no interest to me. There is one Whattsapp group that I offer up early praise for. They are the “A Team”. It's a Whattsapp group that is all about me and it is stuffed to the gunnels with Chums, all of whom I adore and who I should never want to be without. They are the kindness of friends. Kindness is a word that coincidentally starts with a hard “C” sound just like Cat, and that's how my friends make me feel right now, like a cat that is enjoying being stroked and indulged and loved far beyond what I could ever reasonably expect. There are many things to be annoyed about in life. There are things to bring you down. Some of them begin with the letter C; Coughs and Colds are a blight. I've spent too long hanging out with two years olds so I know about coughs and colds and must have built up enough resistance to see me through old age. Covid, which I have had and lived to tell the tale. Happily cleaning and chlamydia remain a mystery. Then there is Cancer, defiantly a hard “C”. It's the “C” word I hoped to avoid, but it has slammed into me and I need a good Cry. I'm learning all about Cancer and Chemotherapy. On the upside I won't have to worry about rogue hairs on my chin. The thing about this less than desirable second list is that they have afforded me so much more time to avail myself of all the wonders of the more desirable of the “C” lists. You have to make the best of these things and find as many small joys in life as possible, so now's the moment to surrender, put my feet up, catch up on all those back editions of Countryfile while guzzling canapes. I think champagne will have to wait. Thank Goodness for Catch Up TV, another good thing in life that begins with the letter “C”. Thank goodness for the “A” team, the ever expanding list of girl friends with whom I have laughed and cried and sometimes cried with laughter. They have caught me. That's another “C” word, and I don't think I will ever let them go. END Follow the Blind Truth Blog here: https://theblindtruth.co.uk/ Image is Siobhain Santry's sketch of Anna. 

She didn't get up but indicated the chair for me to sit in. I sat down. She introduced herself and I said how nice it was to meet her. Given the circumstances, I might have happily lived into old age and never felt I'd missed out by not meeting her. “Now I've had this nice letter from your doctor. It's says your suffering with your eyes.” I raised my eyebrows. This was probably not the moment for sport but I couldn't help myself. “No”, I said, sounding suitably bemused.” “Well it says here that you've got a problem with your eyes. What I need to know is if you can see my face.” In view of the fact we were both wearing face masks this seemed a bit of a wasted question. I didn't say so. “Is that right? Are you suffering with your eyes?” “I'm not suffering. There is no suffering involved.” “But you do have a problem?” “No, the problem is not mine,” I spat. “The problem is largely other people”. As soon as the words were out of my mouth I felt a strange mix of satisfaction and regret. “I'm projecting of course,” she said. “If I couldn't see much I would be suffering. It would be a problem for me but I can see it's not a problem for you. But you see, what I need to know is if you can see my face.” “You think you do, “I persisted tipping into rudeness. “ We'll only end up in an existential exchange about what the gold standard of being able to see a face is. Since neither of us has any idea of what the other one understands by seeing a face it's a hopeless conversation so why don't I just tell you the snell score and you can look it up later. Shall we move on?” We moved on. When the copy of the letter she had written to my GP arrived, she had taken the time and the trouble to send me a large print version. Considering I behaved like a terrier, never missing an opportunity to take a bite at the deficiencies of my treatment, I may have to revise my opinion. When the follow up appointment letter came, that too came in large print. My only complaint is that only half of it made it's way onto the page. It wasn't the first half with no second half. In fact, I couldn't tell you if there ever was a page two because there were no page numbers and no one had signed it. Curiously it was the left side of the letter only. The right side of the letter seemed to have trailed off across the edge of the page into invisibility. How curious to take the trouble to send a critical appointment letter in large print but not to bother to check that it delivered the critical information. It's something I might feel the need to raise with “Miss Nat” or possibly even “a member of her tea” when I go to meet yet another stranger on Friday. Meantime, my email in box is now swilling in emails with uploaded leaflets from Breast cancer Care and a series of NHS leaflets that have been photocopied and turned into pdfs. The trouble is that every email is entitled “Your Scan” so no hint of a clue about what's in it. As to the pdf's themselves, they are upside down and the wrong way round and all need page by page rotation, which does not always go according to plan. Let us hope that this is the only confusion when it comes to the Big C. END Follow the Blind Truth Blog here: https://theblindtruth.co.uk/ Image is Siobhain Santry's drawing of a grey ribbon with The Blind Truth written on it.

The Grand was on his second babycino of the afternoon when he had a lightbulb moment: “Granny, I don't think you can see very much can you?” “You're right,” I said. With just a hint of caution he suggested; “Have you thought of wearing glasses?” “It wouldn't help,” I explained. “Not shades on your head but glasses on your face like Mummy.” “I have tried it….” I began “Because then you could give me your huge hoover.” He'd just split the atom. I'm glad the Grand knows what he wants to make him happy. If it's playing hoovers with a long cane I'll go with that. He makes me happy. I've been thinking about what it takes to live a good life, to be happy. A good nights sleep is the holy grail. I like to go to bed early because early nights bring early starts and that's the best time of day. There is nothing like laughter. The Old Bag and I laugh together all the time. Last week I answered the door to her with the words, “Is that a tractor I see before me?” We were hot on the heels of Neil Parish's parliamentary disgrace. “I'm a John Deer,” she said. “All my gears are working and I just keep on going.” for the next hour we sat on my sofa and improvised tractor jokes. Then we listened to The Wurzels singing “I've Got a Brand New Combine Harvester,” while I served up supper. I get excited at the sight of my beans sprouting and totting up just how much fennel I've grown. The smell of lilac gets me every time. It's a creative life. For me it's a bit of basket weaving and the time I spend mucking about with clay. I love a good glaze. I've got the knowledge. I know where every clean loo in London is located. If you find yourself passing one, never waste the opportunity. Nature is wonderful. Learning bird song has taught me so much about my surroundings. Where there are bluebells there is wild garlic. If I have an egg I have a meal. If I have an onion I have soup. I have friends who have no sight and always scratch cook. Nothing beats home cooking. I'm lucky to have the space to invite my friends round to do a conga as we sing “Come on Islene”. Worrying doesn't help. Knowing this doesn't stop me worrying but it keeps the angst in check. There is nothing like a cat to lift the spirits and keep the rats at bay. Better to leave cleaning to those that know what they're doing. Love is the business. It comes in many forms. Embrace it. I'm not a gifted singer but that doesn't stop me. If I'm feeling off colour, or on form, I sing along to Nina Simone “I'm Feeling Good.” It does the trick. Hiking is one of the great joys of life. If you can walk and talk at the same time, so much the better. Yesterday I walked and talked for four hours, except when I was slurping water. Invest in comfortable shoes. I Rejoice at the miracle of Marmite. Brushing, flossing and regular dentistry brings reward. I find the regular consumption of lose leaf Earl Grey tea has kept the engine turning. Now that I'm an old crone, I've embraced elastic. I want a comfortable life. Always have your dark glasses about your person. On your head is fine. However much I am tempted I am never disposed to gift them to the Grand. I never knew that playing hoovers with a long cane could be so much fun. END Follow the Blind Truth Blog here: https://theblindtruth.co.uk/ Image is Siobhain Santry's sketch of Anna. 

“A pop of colour does the trick”, or so I have been recently instructed. Even the most rudimentary of t-shirts can be dressed up with the addition of an ill-fitting jacket. It might work for Zoom but would it be good enough for real life? Would it work for a real evening out? Experience has taught me that the fish, I know I will order, often comes dressed in butter so it's wise to give thought to how to dress for splatter. Into my inbox popped a 15% off voucher, which I entered and bought a blouse I didn't know I needed. In fact, I bought two blouses that I didn't know I needed. Both of them in a size smaller than I really am. Which of these blouses would go well with fish? On balance, better to go with the one that would suffer less effect from butter. Having once sat opposite a blind diner who ate his buttered asparagus in much the same way that a small boy would suck long strands of pasta off the plate, slapping the strings against the side of his cheeks, I know the reach and devastation of a bit of the old melt. I know just how messy an eater I can be. It's an adventure, going out to eat in civilised company, or even not so civilised company. Here I should come clean and say that I've possibly given going out, to eat, more thought than I might have done before spending two years at home inhaling kettle crisps and lettuce. Dressing up felt like a million dollars and I had all my bases covered. A bit of salmon slapped down on some well buttered giant cuscus may not appeal to everyone but the waiter had me at “pink or well done?” No one ever asks this about fish. “Pink” I said licking my lips. The fish was delicious, the company good and the surroundings comfortable. I was at the point of sitting back in my chair, jacket off to show the best of my bargains, when it began to dawn on me, that the quirky red blob, that I thought had formed a charming variation to the regular repeat of an otherwise regulated floral pattern, was not what it seemed. If anyone who sat down to lunch with me is reading this, do let me know if your silence was born of a sense of awkwardness or that you just didn't notice that I was displaying my new dress size. I had left the house with the label still attached. There is something undignified about walking around with the label still attached to your clothes. How easy it is to confuse one red blob sizing label with another. for anyone who did notice they may have had to do a second take in awe at just how slim I appear to have become. While your eyes may not deceive you, I may be deceiving myself. I fear the blouse may have been wrongly labelled and to all practical affects, I too was mislabelled. Nothing more fishy about it than that. I should say that I didn't suck the fish off the plate, nor was anyone showered in butter, I have taken the blouse to the dry cleaners who remarked on the generosity of the cut. It's a good job I also have generous friends who do not judge me for these occasional lapses. END Follow the Blind Truth Blog here: https://theblindtruth.co.uk/ Image is Siobhain Santry's drawing of a grey ribbon with The Blind Truth written on it.

Not that this has ever happened to me, but if I were to find myself in a long and boring zoom call, I might feel inclined to do a bit of online shopping at the same time. The sort of thing that I might find myself bidding for would be books about working animals. I could work myself into a lava in the search for Lloyd, an illusive police horse, probably long since dispatched to the knackers. If I were to find such a treasure, at an all-inclusive price, I could find myself struggling to say what I really thought in response to a plea for my input. I would have no problem reverting to that tried and tested response, “nothing to add to what has already been said,” or “I think what you think.” Yet all the time I am unable to get Lloyd the Police Horse from my mind, expertly handled by his brave rider with his 1980s haircut. Who knows why these things happen. I have been unable to get Lloyd out of my tiny mind. Then I had a piece of luck. Danny the Guide Dog could be mine for £1.49 including p&p. I could barely contain myself. The highlight of teaching the son about how Guide Dogs come into this world and are prepared for their life as a working dog, was obviously the bit about how Danny learnt to poo in just the right spot. From my vantage point as average height, my sensitivities are never challenged when my chum Radiator commands “busy busy” which is Guide Dog talk for poo on command. My sensitivities were somewhat taken by surprise to find myself examining a photo of Danny mid-way through his ablutions. Here, I must try hard not to apply my human fear that I should find myself photographed doing my ablutions, because Danny the Guide dog probably experienced no such sensitivities. The Son, on the other hand, was thrilled beyond words to be the proud owner of a real-life story featuring a real life dog poo. I have been accumulating giant font books to read to the Grand. I confess that the print in my “dog eared” copy of Danny the Guide Dog, is rather beyond me these days, but oh how I long to introduce the Grand to the joys of pooing on command. Once Danny is embedded in his consciousness, I wonder where this will leave the “huge hoover” that we use to make our stately progress round Sainsbury's, or tap our way round the station with. Could the cane find itself dislodged by a dog? I'm still hankering after Lloyd. Mist the Sheepdog seems to have Long since disappeared into the fog of memory. Ping Pong the Elephant in headed my way and should make it from Market Harborough by next Tuesday. If a newer younger Danny ever comes up for sale, I will make a bid. Meantime, all day zoom calls have nearly always had my full attention. This pledge was only once subverted by a job lot of wooden railway track and a vest for the cat, which is what I hope will stop him licking himself raw after being in yet another fight. Let us hope that I am never subject to any kind of digital check that may reveal my shopping habits and the moments at which they take place. I'm not sure how I will explain away the industrial quantities of rinse aid let alone the axe, bought in error twice. My shopping habits may be a bit on the unusual side but they have seldom disappointed. The exception being the William Morris pillowcases that turned out to printed with pictures of He Man. END Follow the Blind Truth Blog here: https://theblindtruth.co.uk/ Image shows multiple red squares with 'The Blind Truth' written inside them.

Everyone loves a bit of personal administration. Don't they? There is nothing like changing arrangements for paying your rates charges or changing your direct debits. You can do it on-line and if that fails, well it fails. You will be accumulating charges, with no apparent means of stopping them, from here until way beyond next Monday. Searching the website for telephone details will not help because it's a secret. The only numbers that are published are the ones that tell you that it will be quicker for “YOU” if you do this on-line. Because no one has ever sent you an account number to enter, you are immediately rejected and sent back to the customer services number that tells you to go to the website. At this point you may find that you become highly agitated and having hammered in the phone number one last time, someone answers the phone. In your astonishment you might exclaim your relief and tell your tale of woe at which point the call handler explains that rudeness wont' be tolerated and puts the phone down. I don't know what that's like. It's never happened to me. One of my more pro-active communicants, sends me text messages to remind me that I should call the number in the message to get a flu jab appointment. I do as I'm told but the number doesn't work because it's the wrong number. So I make the trek up the road to be told that no appointments have been released and wont' be until Monday. I'm told that the number is correct. Guess how I spent my Monday? The verified phone number was incorrect so I called the surgery where a message told me that it would be quicker for me if I went online. Online rejected my log in details and sent me a link to create a new password that never arrived. I put on my trainers and plodded up the road to make the appointment in person. All became clear. The number was correct it was just that half of it was missing. There were no new appointments available until Monday when I should call the correct number (not forgetting to insert the missing half) and press option two. Lots of people had been pressing option one in response to the instruction that it was option one for flu jabs. “If you listen carefully it's option two. It just sounds like option one” the receptionist said. I rested my head on her desk. While conceding nothing, she took my point and went on to explain that all flu jabs were an unreliable bus ride away. I raised and lowered my head onto her desk. My cane was folded up on her desk and having not accounted for it, it span off in a protest of its own. The receptionist suggested I call at 8am on Monday and if I couldn't get through I'd have to keep trying. “No” I said. “This is not reasonable”. She took my point and would get a colleague to jab me now. My gratitude was short lived because I had to wait until the end of afternoon childhood vaccinations. This was a clinic at which everyone who got a jab screamed. The nurse who jabbed me said it was good that I had listened and got a flu jab. “Listened?” I barked. “What do you mean?” “Done as you were told.” “It's more shambles than dictatorship,” I strained. “Well I love the NHS,” she said. I'm due a health MOT. The first available appointment is 6 weeks away and its phone only these days. I spent the evening on the council website for a bit of light relief. END Follow the Blind Truth Blog here: https://theblindtruth.co.uk/ Image is Siobhain Santry's sketch of Anna. 

The Baby Grand has arrived. I was so moved by the miracle of new life, that I went to an actual shop and purchased a small floppy rabbit suitable for babies under three months old. For clarity, this was not a real rabbit, but a stuffed toy rabbit. Then my largesse got the better of me and I decided that what every baby brother needs is a Superhero older brother, so I invested in a Batman outfit, suitable for children aged 2-4 years. The Grand may not be the Baby Grands idea of a Superhero but he's definitely mine. “How does Batman's mummy call him in for his food?” I asked the Grand. “Get your food,” the Grand shouted as he took off his clothes and we all jumped in to tell him that there was no need to take his pants off. “Dinner, dinner, dinner BATMAN!” I trotted out to the rhythm of the Batman theme music. There was a small hiatus in proceedings as the Grand went in search of the Bat ears that were a bit on the snug side and had pinged off. He pulled his Bat ears down as hard as he could. They swivelled round his toddler head until his Bat ears were out of line and he was more of a Snark than a Superhero. “Why/” he said, looking truly bemused. “Well, when you eat a meal, sometimes it's called Dinner.” “No” he said and went off to speak to the DiL. Once enveloped by the safety of her lap he asked her “What does Batman's Mummy say?” “I don't know, what does Batman's Mummy say?” the Dil answered. “I don't know either,” said the Grand. The joke may be a concept that has been a little prematurely launched on my part but I have other plans. In the latest batch of photos the Son has uploaded, there is a very good photos of the Grand and I playing football. In true elite athletic style, the Grand is blowing a bubble and I am providing some touchline encouragement with my eyes shut. Always alert to the possibility of new opportunities and keen to try new things in life, I have seen the main chance and I'm taking it. Ole Gunnar Solskjaer may have enjoyed a long and loyal career with Manchester United, but I think it's all over now. I know an excellent blind Goal Ball player who coaches his son's sighted under twelves team. They've enjoyed a couple of good seasons and so I see no reason why ManU couldn't be the lucky beneficiary of this approach. It's worked for the Harpenden juniors. The coach I'm thinking of is fully occupied but I photograph well on the touchline with my eyes open or shut. I know a lot about ducking and diving, dodging and weaving and I can handle difficult questions from the media. My ability to suck my breath in through my teeth in moments of high drama would televise well. Is Grandstand still airing or Saturday pm? I don't know anything about football but if we let ignorance get in the way of progress, nothing in life would happen. When it comes down to it, it's all a leap of faith. I'm wondering what the chances are of getting the Glazer family to commit themselves to a new uber league for Goal ball. Murrey Walker would do a great commentary, if he were still alive. I wonder if I've got my starter wires crossed there. Anyway, Gary Linekar would provide great match analysis, and since it's in such a good cause, I'm sure he'd bring the crisps As Robin might say. “Holy margarine Batman.” END Follow the Blind Truth Blog here: https://theblindtruth.co.uk/ Image is Siobhain Santry's drawing of a grey ribbon with The Blind Truth written on it.

It might have been the colour of nobility and power in the world of the ancients but purple been on the back foot in public life over recent years. It's not fashionable to wear your ambition on your sleeve these days. Purple though, is making a comeback. No longer are old men reduced to exercising a love of luxury in their secret choice of purple underpants. These days it's everywhere. Not underpants, but Purple. It's out and proud in a rebrand that symbolises spirituality, creativity and dignity. It's not just chocolate that comes swathed in purple. The promise of a good night's sleep is also delivered in purple. You would think that this would be unmissable. Unmissable because purple should be easy to spot. Spotting the promise of sleep is rather easier for some of us than others. If you are dependent on Google doing the spotting, you should prepare yourself for a long night trudging about because Google likes to cluster locations. It's easy to find yourself in the right place but the wrong location. I know because it happened to me. I spent half an hour working out my route and checking I had got the right destination amongst the many on offer. I got it wrong. It's easy to get lulled into a false sense of security. There was the trademark purple façade but there was no booking. Trailing through emails that had come via a third party several weeks ago, I found the booking reference and got redirected to another branch, a two minute walk away. It wasn't difficult to find but once inside, it was another matter altogether. It was late. The computer was down, and everyone was a bit on the grumpy side. I got in the queue except it wasn't the queue. After fifteen minutes of standing next to a hen party from Liverpool as they chatted away, it dawned on me that as far as they could see, I had randomly tuned into them. There I was watching an episode of reality tv in a hotel foyer. Who knows what kind of a kick they imagined I was getting out of it. It wasn't the queue. It was definitely past my bed time by the time I managed to check in. I had my cane on the counter. The receptionist handed me a key-card and pointed. “Over there” she mumbled. I asked for help. There was a bit of tutting and some burbling then someone came to show me to my room. I slept well. Probably helped as much by a good supper and lashings of plonk as it was by the purple promise of a good night's sleep. In the morning I didn't hang about. I went to check out, but reception was deserted. After a bit of bumbling about a voice said. “Can I help you?” Then he pointed at an empty space at about waist height. “Key deposit,” he instructed. In the middle of reception was an invisible clear plastic box. It was as if someone had left their rubbish floating in mid-air. “Everything alright?” he said in a tone that betrayed his reticence at asking. “A bit of help in knowing where things were and how to check out would have been helpful.” I twiddled my cane for effect. “That's because no one told us.” “They did,” I snipped, twirling the cane like a majorette. “No they didn't” he insisted. “How do you know that?” “If we'd known we would have helped you. Next time you have to tell us.” Down the road I ordered a breakfast bun. It arrived completely empty. There are time when some things are best left unsaid. END Follow the Blind Truth Blog here: https://theblindtruth.co.uk/ Image shows multiple grey squares with 'The Blind Truth' written inside them. 

I'm incandescent with rage. It might be more accurate to say that I'm florescent with rage because I can feel my colour rising. It's not that a lack of access to an on-street parking permits will result in the towing away of my hugely expensive car. I don't have one to tow away. I'm much more concerned that my friends will stop popping in for cups of tea and even the odd glass of wine because they are afraid their old wrecks will be towed away on the back of a council truck and that it will cost them more to get their cars back than their cars are worth. I've just been onto the new web-based “renewal of permit” site that my local council have provided now that they seem to have closed all their offices and shut down their phones. It's a public health initiative that has sent my blood pressure rocketing. I had to log in three times before the system would let me complete the form. Luckily for me the form was pretty much filled in and with screen magnification on I could see that this was all in order. But where was the button to confirm my purchase? It was lurking behind an icon that lives at the bottom of my screen, so it was invisible. I wondered if that might be the case so switched magnification off in the hunt for Red October, that remained invisible now that magnification was switched off. Then I had a go at uploading proof of residency. My combined utilities came to nearly £80.00 last month. It's a good job I've invested in wool as I feared I could be sitting here for a long time grappling with technology. In the end I went back to the home page where I was asked to log in again. I logged in and then called the number on the bottom of the screen for help. A slightly tense voice read through a menu of seven possible areas the council thought I might want help with. Parking was not amongst them. I'm not at all surprised about the warning that the council will not tolerate abuse or rudeness. I don't find it hard to imagine a multitude of ways in which I might be rude or abusive once I'm put through to an operator. I stay on the line as instructed but the line goes dead. I try again. The line goes dead again. I fired off an email explaining that the online application process doesn't work with my magnification switched on. In case anyone suggests that switching it off might help, I explain that the process is invisible to me, and can someone call me back or send email confirmation that my application has worked. I've had an email explaining that the council are experiencing high call and email volumes so I will need to exercise patience. In the meantime, if I want to sign up to the new garden waste scheme, I can do so by following the link to the new online sign up. They say it's also the quickest way to report a missed bin collection. The big news is that in the event of wanting to report loss or damage to council property, there's a hot line you can call. In the interests of research, I called the number and would you believe it? There are real people at the council looking after council property. Good to know the service ethos is still alive, just, even if the hunt for Red October is lost. I'm reading Kafka, just for laughs, and marvelling at how art mirrors real life. END Follow the Blind Truth Blog here: https://theblindtruth.co.uk/ Image is Siobhain Santry's sketch of Anna. 

“Let's go to the supermarket and buy oats so we can make flapjacks,” I proposed. The Grand moved like grease lightening. I think it a prerequisite that any trip to the shops should be made fully clothed and in shoes. Sensing that I was unlikely to yield on this point he sat down, stuck his foot out and handed me a shoe. “Hold Granny's hand” the DiL instructed. He nodded. “Hold my hand and don't let go,” I reinforced. At the end of the road, I flicked open the cane ready for crossing. The Grand used his free hand to grip the cane. ”Hoover” he said. His day was getting better by the minute. We stood on the side of the road while the Grand made groaning noises and mimed a bit of hoovering. “Let go please,” I said, then instantly regretted my instruction. He'd let go of me before he'd give up his hoover. “Keep holding my hand,” I said. Perhaps this would be the moment when his toddler bubble burst and he realised the inconsistencies of adults. He looked thoughtful but gripped harder. We'd been in the supermarket about 4 seconds when the Grand picked up a packet of biscuits. “We're not getting those,” I said, “because we're getting oats to make flapjacks.” He clasped the biscuits tightly to his chest. “I want biscuits,” he said. His resistance was not high. He was not well placed to keep a grip on the hoover and the biscuits. I put them back on the shelf and we began our slow progression with me doing the blinky bob in the search for oats, and him making growling and swooshing noises as we juddered back and forth up the isles, miming a really good work out with a hoover. At the till the Grand reached his hand over the counter to pay and was asked if he'd like a sticker. “Yes” he said. Then he said “Tankoo” and handed me the oats and the stickers . “Let go of my cane and I'll show you how it works.” He let go. Still, I had a child in one hand, oats tucked under the other arm and a cane in my free hand. At home the Grand was ready to give a demonstration on long cane technique. No one else was quite braced for the experience, but he was easily distracted. What was left of the flapjack mix, after much testing, went in the oven. Looking at the finished article, the outcome seemed disproportionate to the effort but that's love for you. Nothing is too much bother. At the park the Grand said, “I love you Granny.” I felt myself tearing up and said, “I love you too.” Then the Grand said, “I love my snack.” We sat down on a bench and he said “I love that dog.” I looked through my tears into oblivion and agreed it was a very fine dog and asked him to tell me all about that dog, which he did. He put his toddler arm around me and I gave him a kiss and got all teary again. “I'm happy,” he said. “Me too,” I said. Then the Grand slid down from the bench and standing in front of me, kicked me in the shins. “oweee,” I said. “What did you do that for?” “Fun,” he hooted, and kicked me again. “that's not funny,” I protested. “It is funny,” he said, laughing with delight. Then heading off across the park with me in hot pursuit he shouted “Run Granny. Run.” The great thing about oats, is that they are a slow-release energy food which means, unlike the biscuit, you can run for longer. END Follow the Blind Truth Blog here: https://theblindtruth.co.uk/ Image shows multiple red squares with 'The Blind Truth' written inside them.

The Son and the DiL are having a night off. They are going to wear grown up clothes, for possibly the very last time in a couple of decades, before driving half way across the south of England to attend a wedding, on a Wednesday. I am now in training to step in and offer soothing words when the inevitable happens and the Grand wakes up just as I am reaching the limit of my ability to stay awake. At this point he will inevitably begin to cry. The cry will turn into sobs as he chokes on the words, “I want Mama.” All my Granny skills will be called upon. The greatest of which is a tried and tested soothing technique in which The Grand commands, between sobs, “Pat bum bum.” In desperation, I do as commanded while I sit awkwardly, shoulder stretched and aching and back beginning to seize up. This could be a big physiotherapy bill. Training means many things: it means going to pick the Grand up from nursery a couple of times, just to be sure I know what I'm doing. In view of the amount of parental hounding a two-year-old is capable of at the mere suggestion that I might turn up, no advance warning was given. The Grand was sufficiently impressed at my presence that he broke into a run, arms outstretched. His greeting was euphuisive. “where Bob and Clive?” he enquired. “They're at home, but they send their love, I said, picturing cats with speech bubbles. “Oh no.” Then he let go and wandered off to go and collect his art work which he handed to me to carry. I tucked my cane under my arm, but it was too late. He'd spotted it. “Oh wow,” he said, “The massive hoover.” He's not one to have trouble thinking how to play hoovers with just about anything. This Granny is never without one. Me, the Grand and the massive hoover set off under supervision. We made a scheduled regular stop at the end of the road to admire free flying budgies that were variously perched on a run of net curtain in someone's front room. I didn't see them myself but felt “vacuumed” into the budgie vortex and agreed that budgies are “beautiful” although wondered about the effects of free defecation on soft furnishings. As we made it home, the rain came down and we all got wet. “Biscuit” the Grand said with quavering lip. Everyone knows that whatever the question, biscuits are the answer and should you drop your biscuit, the answer to the ensuing mess is obviously a massive hoover, which I happened to have folded up in my bag. With a swift manoeuvre of the zip, the entire contents were now on the floor and the massive hoover being swished into a state of readiness before being dropped in favour of the afore mentioned biscuit, which has to be eaten sitting down at the table. “Cheers” I said, knocking my cup of tea against the biscuit. “Cheers,” said the Grand before being pulled back from an intentional biscuit drop, then angling for a swift reposition on the back of the high chair. “No,” I said with my serious face. He pushed. I was firm. He pushed some more. I was adamant. “Have you finished your biscuit?” the Son asked. He was resolute. Toddlers roaming about with biscuits will end badly. He had finished and was ready to suck the moisture out of a face flannel. Then he got down from the table. I need not worry that it will be me that walks half-digested biscuit across the floor. Thank goodness for the massive hoover. END Follow the Blind Truth Blog here: https://theblindtruth.co.uk/ Image is Siobhain Santry's drawing of a grey ribbon with The Blind Truth written on it.

My friend the Doctor, the one who wore her contact lenses in the wrong eyes for longer than she could reasonably be excused for, is a keen wild swimmer. I watched a film about Hampstead Pond and ever since then I thought I'd like to get into it. The Doctor offered to take me, not to Hampstead Pond but a lake near Andover in a location I am keeping secret. She even said she could lend me a wetsuit and a swimming hat, but not goggles, so I went online and ordered a pair. They shimmered like mirrors. I took a photo of myself in them and sent the Doctor a selfie entitled, “how to suck your own eyes out.” She replied that they looked fine to her but “between us you have to peel the film off that says, “remove film”. My swimming suit is prone to filling up with air it's so old, but no need to buy a new one if the Doctor was lending me a wet suit. On the other hand, better check in to make sure nothing is left to chance. “All good. We get changed in the car park. should be a chilled session” she text. “That better not be code for cold,” I pushed back. “Na, nineteen degrees at least,” she reassured. “By the by, ignore the pike. It's very small.” “You never said anything about a pike!” “It's a baby and swims away…mostly”. “I'm worried. I don't like pike.” “I predict you won't see it.” I predicted she was right as I envisaged myself being stalked and sucked under by the baby pike. In the car park everyone stood by their open car boots and put on enormous towelling ponchos. I was perplexed. Surely the idea was to undress and get wet before drying. “I just assumed you'd have one,” said the doctor. I somehow lost the stitched-up bath towels, my Granny made me, to change under on the beach. It was the seventies. We just stripped off. When my companions revealed themselves, they were all wearing competition style swimsuits and hats. Their goggles weren't mirrored, and they all had waterproof timers. I was in what might be described as a lose fitting ensemble with scope for further movement. “Did you bring a wet suit?” I asked. She had not. The peril of my situation was now fully revealed. “Nice and slowly into the water,” our coach said soothingly as the cold water made itself know. “that's lovely,” he said. Then just as my companions were coming up for air after full emersion, and I was considering a light shoulder splash, he blew a whistle, and we were off. “Take your time,” he proffered. Little chance of not having my time taken as I started to move backwards in the slipstream of fast starts my fellow swimmers left. “Can you see the buoy at the end there?….Just swim round that then on to the next one and so on.” In the time it took me to swim a kilometre everyone else managed four. I was faster at getting dressed. In the pub everyone congratulated me on a sterling effort. I felt small. Then someone piped up to tell the tale of their cross-channel swim. She had a heart attack a mile out from Dover. She was gutted and ended up in Ashford General. I've been there. I was gutted for her. I must say that you can work up quite an appetite cold water swimming. I finished the Doctors chips for her. I've ordered a towelling changing robe, new swimming hat and a swimsuit. I like wild swimming, but not against the clock and not with handstands. END Follow the Blind Truth Blog here: https://theblindtruth.co.uk/ Image shows multiple grey squares with 'The Blind Truth' written inside them. 

She didn't say so, but my kitchen is a bit of a disgrace. What the Goddaughter did say was “Yeah, the doors are all chipped. It looks nasty. I could paint those for you.” “How difficult is it to paint kitchen doors?” “Not difficult,” she said. Then she shrugged and stuck out her bottom lip. I'm not slow on the uptake. “What do you mean by not difficult?” I asked. “Not difficult,” she shrugged again. “Let me put it another way, how complicated, how expensive and how long will it take?” The answer was that it would involve a multiplicity of tasks, trips to the paint shop, Saturday morning early starts, two weeks of having no handles and not being able to touch the paintwork before the sealer was applied, and just as expensive as buying new doors. It wasn't going to be a paint job then. This would be an uptake of 25% off new kitchen doors if I hurried while stocks lasted, rather than the agony of something that was not difficult but extremely inconvenient. I sent the builder a text to ask if he might be up for the job of replacing the kitchen cupboard doors. He didn't reply, which I took to mean he hadn't received my request, so I called him. He didn't answer the phone, which I took to mean he was busy just at that moment. When he didn't respond to my various messages I wondered if he'd ever got round to listening to his voicemails so I text him again. The next voice I heard was Malcolm, who said I clearly hadn't listed to the silence. The builder was far too busy and had asked Malcolm if he could do the job. I was delighted. Malcolm and I love a healthy exchange of views. “Is this going to be a ten minute row or a five minute row?” he'll often ask. “What's the point?” I glibly retort. “you're not listening anyway.” Then I got a call from the builder. He said that he was really really really busy. Then he yawned, very loudly, just to reinforce the point. “Listen,” he said. I tell you what it is Anna. My sister is gonna send you a text in a minute. Her husband's cousin's friend has had a baby and the baby is blind. Can you talk to my sister please. No pressure.” “Of course,” I said. “Has the baby got any sight or none at all?” “I don't know. I wasn't listening.” Then he yawned again. “Boy or girl?” I ventured. “I don't know. I wasn't listening.” “When was the baby born?……” I love a new born. “My sister knows. I wasn't listening.” This might have been code for “You're not listening.” The text arrived and I picked up the phone and called the builder's sister. The baby is nearly a year old and she's a girl. Then I listened. The baby is a baby is a baby. The parents are the parents are struggling to get their heads round the idea that perfection comes in all kinds of packages. Perfection need not have twenty-twenty vision. She's statistically unlikely to lament the loss of “taxi driver” as an employment opportunity, but they don't know that. If only someone would listen to what they are asking for. In my outrage at this state of affairs, I committed myself to go to see them. When it came to giving location details I wasn't really listening. That's how I have committed myself to an eight hour round trip. I'm thinking of offering zoom. The Goddaughter turned up and said the new doors looked good but then again they would have looked good painted. END Follow the Blind Truth Blog here: https://theblindtruth.co.uk/ Image is Siobhain Santry's sketch of Anna. 

The Goddaughter, and her various assistants, have been helping to keep my house in order. Reputation is everything and without it, she says, she would not have a cleaning round the envy of the most energetic of entrepreneurs. She keeps her clients. Our shared desire to live in a clean house is one of those bonding experiences that she ensures and I take her word for. Taking her word for it is not the same as taking her literally. When she declares it's ‘all done” I am not so stupid as to imagine perfection and don't judge her or her numerous assistants against an impossible standards. There are limits and while I think it's probably clean enough, I really can't judge for myself. The odd cat biscuit still goes crunch under foot. The Goddaughters various assistants have not always cut me the same slack. They are rather prone to taking things literally and judging me accordingly. The last one refused to come back because, “of your job”. The Goddaughter explained what she knew. The assistant went on a date with someone who knew me and told her that if he were her, so to speak, he would not want clean in my house because he happened to know I worked for the secret service and was licenced to kill. Indeed, he knew for a fact I had killed. The closest I've got to anyone licenced to kill, is breakfast in the canteen at Bishopsgate Police Station. More a “lining up to eat as much as you can” experience than “Line of Duty”. I might suggest that he was confusing me with that well-known fast car driving, sharp shooting, sniper, Brother Silas. Like me, poor old Brother Silas was a bit misrepresented. Neither of us could hit a barn door at anything further than six feet, let alone drive a fast car at speed through Paris. Just because we are on the light side of white doesn't mean we carry such a huge grudge against people with pigment that we want to polish them off. If my generosity were really being stretched I should say the Goddaughters assistant's date got confused. Could he have muddled up notions of Public Service with the Secret Service. Or possibly he got his wires crossed when he heard about the exploits of the “Likely Cats” Bob and Clive, my small game hunters who turned out to be responsible for the stink behind the sofa. They were just doing what cats do and I never knew the bodies were there. Maybe the Goddaughter's assistant could smell the rotting flesh and that tipped her over the edge. The most likely explanation is that her date just got bored and thought he'd have a bit of fun at someone else's expense. What yarn could he spin and still be believed? Quite a long one as it turned out. The yarn he span was nearly as long as the threads that Bob and Clive have thoughtfully liberated from the front of my sofa. One more good yank from my own resident killers and the once pristine façade of my furniture will be revealed for what it is. Not that brilliantly constructed but well upholstered. Much like it's owner. Things may not always be what they seem. Bob and Clive are cute but will kill on a whim. Being whiter than white I wouldn't dream of trying, I don't judge those boys for their murderous ways and still clean up after them. Reputation is everything and my killer cats are universally admired. I, on the other hand, appear to be dammed. Without my good reputation, even the cleaner has dumped me. END Follow the Blind Truth Blog here: https://theblindtruth.co.uk/ Image is Siobhain Santry's drawing of a grey ribbon with The Blind Truth written on it.

I got the call on Tuesday. I'm not talking literally. It came in a text message and instructed me to follow the link to online booking. I did as I was told but it didn't like my text enlargement. It would be a best guess then. If I had more of an eye for detail, I might not have made such a hash of it. A ten-minute car journey could be anything from twenty minutes or an hour on, that Emperor of transport, the bus. I split the difference and allowed forty minutes. In the best tradition of royalty, the bus kept me waiting. It kept me waiting for longer than three buses were timetabled for. There was quit a little clutch of mask clad passengers poised to jostle for the door when it finally opened. I did what I always do. I went to sit down in the first available seat. “Not here,” said a muffled voice. On to the next seat then. “You can't sit here,' said another muffled voice as she banged her knuckles vigorously on the window. Where was I to sit? Third time lucky. I've lost track of “the rules”. The variations that appear and disappear by way of poster and hazard tape are mysterious. The almost universal dread that travellers have of a stranger plonking themselves down next to them, may turn out to be a thing of the past, post pandemic. Getting the nerve up to repel advances for anyone hoping for a seat is now practised by even the most reticent of folk. Busy with the anti-fog spray that is a necessity for dark glasses while wearing a mask, I managed to miss my stop and had to walk back. It was an hour since I left home. I was late. In the vaccination centre no one seemed worried about tardy timekeeping. “What's your name today?” “Same as yesterday,” I said, unable to control myself and instantly regretting it. “Can't seem to find you. Are you sure it's today?” “I'm sure,” I said with all the confidence of someone who has already banked the money. “Could you just check your tezt message for me?' Who would know how easy it is to confuse a five with a six? “That was yesterday,” she said. “Don't worry. All sorted.” “Come along,” a looming voice said, making a play to hold hands. I froze. “I'll look after you,” she said, giving my resisting hand a good tug. I didn't say so, but while my failure to see what was in front of could not be helped, I wondered about holding hands with anyone dressed like that. What I did say was “you lead I'll follow.” Once jabbed, a nice volunteer came with me to the exit. “See you in 12 weeks,” she said. None of us could see what was plainly in front of us. At least I have an excuse. I'd been Gok Wan'd and was ten years younger. All the stresses of the afternoon ebbed away. What was in front of me next was Sainsburys. I went in to commit myself to 19 crimes, (a nice little cabernet blend). It would be deliciously accompanied by thinly sliced, lightly salted roasted veg. I picked a bag dusted with something that said it tasted of cheese but wasn't. Then I went wild. Thinly sliced roast potatoes were on a bogof. The second bag was doused in sea salt and cracked pepper -flavouring. I paid. I saw the number 3 and headed off on the number 5 until I realised my mistake and got out to walk home. My crimes were delicious and the veg turned out to be crisps. END Follow the Blind Truth Blog here: https://theblindtruth.co.uk/ Image shows multiple red squares with 'The Blind Truth' written inside them.

I've had THE jab. Jabs and jibes were the theme of the day. The mysteries of temporary signage that declare where to go, remained just that, a mystery. It was a good job the Physio Witch had provided fulsome direction of how to access a community hall that was at the far end of a Sainsbury's car park, behind a doctor's surgery with a walkway to it, so grand, it rivalled the spot where I keep the ever-expanding number of council issued wheelie bins. I won't dwell on that here. The sun was low in the sky and as I ambled about outside Sainsburys, I inadvertently ambled into Sainsburys through the “exit only” door. I know this because someone told me so. A quick circuit of the special offers and I left by the route by which I had entered, pacing about between temporary arrows that directed me back and forth across the car park. Eventually the penny dropped. It must be where no arrow dared to go. I'm not surprised that arrows didn't dare to head for the Covid vaccination Centre. The arrows might not have been up to the job, but one marshal had an interesting take on giving directions and could give any arrow a good run for its money. “Madam,” a small florescent man said authoritatively. “I need you to go left.” So, I went left. I've never come off best when faced with a wall. This was no different. “Not there,” he continued. “Obviously when I said go left, I was indicating you should bare left.” “OK,” I said. “I'm baring left, now where?” “Listen to me. Listen to me. I said bare left.” “I'm baring left.” “I'm trying to help you. I'm indicating which way to go. Look at me.” “it's no good indicating. I have no idea what you're doing,” I snipped waving the cane about a bit. “I'm trying to be helpful. You're not listening to what I'm telling you.” I lost it. “You're not making any sense. Just describe where I need to go.” He jabbed his finger in my face. “Listen. I'm trying to help you but you're not listening.” Then he took hold of my arm. I didn't budge. Exasperation is usually born of a loss of control. “Tell me then, just tell me. I'm trying to be helpful but you're not listening. What do you want me to do?” Yep, he was exasperated. “I'll just follow you.” “Well why didn't you just say that in the first place. You don't listen.” We both took a breath. “Mask over your nose,” he instructed. “It is over my nose.” “No, it isn't,” he said, adjusting my mask so that my already steamy world fogged over completely. Not much chance of following him now. I can't pretend there was much to laugh about in this nasty little exchange. “Do you have any allergies?” said the nice young man in scrubs. “Brazil nuts,” I said. “And what happens if you eat a Brazil nut?” “My throat swells up and I can't breathe.” “Do you carry an EpiPen?” “No. I just don't eat Brazil nuts.” “So not that serious then.” I suppose these matters are all relative. It depends on your view of asphyxiation. My view of asphyxiation is that of the many ways that one can die unable to breath I wouldn't pick any of them. It's why I've always made a point of avoiding arrest. It's the reason I don't eat Brazil nuts. It's the reason that I went for THE jab and let uninvited rudeness and touching go. Building my metaphorical immunity has kept me healthy all these years and so will THE jab. END Follow the Blind Truth Blog here: https://theblindtruth.co.uk/ Image is Siobhain Santry's drawing of a grey ribbon with The Blind Truth written on it.

There are not many winners in the time of Corona Virus, but dog breeders seem to be amongst them. This has generated a proliferation in the extendable dog lead. The extendable dog lead, which is my enemy, is not the only thing that has proliferated. Where there are extendable dog leads there are frequently dogs attached to the other end, busy relieving themselves of their breakfast. Where once there was breakfast, there is inevitably dog poo. Since lockdown begun the explosion of dogs and their poo has made its presence felt in ways that I never knew were possible. While cleaning up after your dog is the gold standard, I understand that even the best of dog owners get caught short. In parts of the Balkans people hang strands of colourful fabric and ribbon to designated trees to remember their dearly departed by. These colourful expressions may not be to everyone's taste, but they are relatively benign compared to newer customs that appear to have taken root, or should I say, taken flight.  In parts of my local walking spot, people hang dog poo in black bags from the trees and forget all about it. I wish I knew who they were, so I could return their abandoned dog poo to them. I know I'm not alone in not seeing the poo from the trees but honestly, no one expects to be swiped in the face with Labrador poo. I'm making assumptions here, based on the statistical chances. I don't want to sound mean. I love a Labrador as much as the next person, but there are more Labradors in the world than I remember there ever being before lockdown began. It might not have been a Labrador but it was a big dog that eats a wet food diet or had an upset stomach.  It could have been a golden retriever or even a Great Dane. It defiantly wasn't a Yorkshire Terrier. Whatever it was it probably wasn't a working dog. However clever the guide dog, or any working dog for that matter, it would seem an unlikely use of canine time, to stop for long enough to bag and suspend their own excrement from a tree, unless I am missing something here. I have not taken the particular talents of the “sniffer” dog into account, it's true, but I don't suppose that even they are disposed to the bag and suspend method of poo disposal. I suppose that given the rise in popularity of hanging dog poo from trees, it was inevitable that someone was going to have to face up to it sooner or later. I only wish it had not been me. The poo bag is designed to be tightly tied and taken home. I put the lack of knots down to user failure. That's the person not the dog. I'd go further and say that no rural idle, no common, wood or forest is enhanced by poo bags blowing gently in the breeze or flapping about in the shrubbery. Coming face to bag with the unintended consequences of the rise in popularity of the dog and hitherto unthought of methods of poo disposal, I cannot help but wonder if the many changes to the way we live will stand the test of time.  I'm hoping we all buy less clothes to dispose of in landfill, that the banana has finally found its true vocation in the loaf, that commuting times are a thing of the past, and that my personal commitment to daily walking remains undimmed. Poo suspended form trees is no way to live. While dog breeders have been making a killing, the by-product of their success is killing me. END Follow the Blind Truth Blog here: https://theblindtruth.co.uk/ Image is Siobhain Santry's drawing of Anna ducking away from a bag of dog poo hanging on a low tree branch. 

The superlight walking poles have really come into their own since round three of lockdown. I've spent the last year perfecting my cane and pole techniques and I've been feeling pretty smug about where they have landed. I'm choosing my words carefully here. I could never have imagined converting the cane or the pole in a way that you might hanker after a nice bit of cashmere or a beautiful silk, but I have caught myself on line shopping for both. It might be a sign of old age. I've noticed that I've also started talking to the Son about people he doesn't know and never will. I do this as he's turning puce with pleasure as he explains how to switch my autoreply on and off for the umpteenth time. This morning I sent him a photo of a graveyard because I thought the view was rather nice. It could be that all this pole and cane action is not encroaching age but the shift from a cerebral way of getting around to one that is more sensory, more rooted in my body. This theory is supported by a range of what you might describe as ancillary shopping that has seen a serious upgrade in shoes. I'm absolutely certain this is an exciting development and not a view of old age. Whether or not these advances could be described as old lady or not, I've been feeling content in where things have landed. Still watching my language. I was just coming through a kissing gate when I noticed that there were people on the other side. Old habits die hard. I popped both poles into my right hand and assuming the flat ground on the left that was there last week was still there. It was not. I forgot about the rain. My brief affair with mud has reminded me that the old ways don't work any more. As me and my muddy badge of shame meandered home, a new phenomenon, which neither pole nor cane could account for, made itself known. It's called the “back swipe”. This is different from the side swipe because there is not a barbed comment to be heard nor did anyone sidle up to me, knock me off my feet, then make a run for it. The “back swipe” is part of the ever-changing landscape that the cane cannot alert me too, since the cane is designed to allow sensory feedback from the ground. How can any of us anticipate what is to be delivered in mid-air? The “back swipe” is a speciality hazard delivered by reversing teenage boys in shorts, often in the dead of winter, holding on to bicycles, with large thermally insulated boxes strapped to their backs containing food. Still watching my language. An encounter with the #Deliveroo “back swipe” lacks the comic appeal of a #Laurel and Hardy sketch if you are part of the performance. Having only just finished paying the bill for the broken jaw and ensuing dentistry, I am not keen to entertain the thought of more. My dance with fish and chips was not balletic. It was more of a smack in the face. It's bothered me but I think I may have the solution. The #Darleks had a point, so to speak, integrating the sink plunger into their #Darlek selves. Luckily for me I know the woman who thought up this novel idea and elevated the sink plunger to stardom. I'm thinking of commissioning her to make me something that might serve as an early indication of the “back swipe”. Teenage boys should watch out. I'm done with “excuse me”. I'm going straight in with “exterminate”. END Follow the Blind Truth Blog here: https://theblindtruth.co.uk/ Image is Siobhain Santry's sketch of Anna. 

There is a fine line between fame and infamy and oh how easy it is to cross that line and achieve infamy by mistake. It was with a bit of trepidation that I approached the idea of speaking to the nation, or at least the part of it that listens to radio four and has not tuned out for an evening of Netflix. Who wouldn't tune out given the choice, when the viewing is as tempting as some of the steamy period drama that have graced our screens over recent weeks. “The Duck is delicious,” the BF reported in a well-appointed slip of the finger in a recent text, as she commented on the delights of Regé-Jean Pages' performance in Bridgerton. “Yum”. Undaunted by the competition I pressed on. I have the looks for radio and in this regard no one could fault my less than steamy contribution. I knew I would be nervous. The last time I “bumped into” #Peter White, he offered me a lift home. This time I wasn't expecting any favours and I didn't get any. It wasn't the fastest 19 minutes of my life. It's an odd thing that however well prepared you are for a grilling, few of us don't have moments of panic as we burn in public. Level one panic sounds like this in my head; “Oh how I wish I had memorised what came after the decimal point and given a better reply.” Level two goes a bit like this: “Did I say what I meant to say?” Out of control panic is a car crash. “Will anyone in the office ever speak to me again?” I was lurking somewhere between level one and level two when the line went dead. I waited. I waited some more, then a voice in my ear said, “this is the operator at Broadcasting House Mr Benn. We're going live in…” “I'm not Mr Benn, “ I blurted out as I thought about that cartoon character from the seventies. The possibility of popping into a nearby changing room and altering my appearance before disappearing off for an adventure was not without its appeal. If someone somewhere was addressing #Hilary Benn as me, I wonder what he was thinking about. Not much I imagine. “You're not Mr Benn,” the voice said. “Then I'll drop the call.” “Don't do that,” I protested. “I'm half way through an interview with #Peter White in Salford.” “You're supposed to be Hilary Benn,” he said betraying his irritation. Hungry for the resumption of my torture I begged for reconnection. “You're supposed to be Hilary Benn.” “can you reconnect me?” I asked. The line went dead. It's not that hard to stand your ground when no one is listening to you. I planned to hang about just long enough to be able to truthfully say that I'd tried. The best laid plans and all that. “Just top and tail it,” I heard Peter say. “I think we've got what we need.” “Peter,” I burbled, wondering if I was now betraying the first signs of some kind of media based Stockholm syndrome. He only had one more question, so I needn't have worried. Amazingly enough, not everyone was drooling over the Duke of Hastings. Someone on my WhatsApp lockdown group heard the interview. A couple of colleagues sent texts to say it had gone alright. I confided my discomfort to the Sister who said “it was pretty bad,” and offered a bit of feedback as part of my learning. I've had enough feedback to last a lifetime. The BF didn't declare my performance delicious but then again, she never said it was a duck. I'll settle for that. END Follow the Blind Truth Blog here: https://theblindtruth.co.uk/ Image is Siobhain Santry's drawing of a duck dress up as a duke, top hat and monocle included. 

Famous for our love of animals, the Brits have been busy filling up refuges for unwanted pets for decades. It's an improvement on drowning or leaving the runt of the litter on the side of the road to be squashed or taken home by some unsuspecting driver who, having felt compelled to give their break pad a good work out, cannot help themselves. We're full of contradictions. I'm a fan of the dachshund, but when it comes to sharing my home with animals, I've often plumped not just for the short-legged hound but for the baby cries of the Siamese cat. I've had five of them. Having lived without their cries for some years now, I've been hankering after a mog. I've been searching the ads for unwanted female adult felines and that's how it came to pass that Bob and Clive moved in. they're kittens. They arrived with a free selection of fleas, ticks and worms which is no small achievement for the middle of winter. To add to the intrigue, they came with a packet of cat biscuits, of a type I would consider better suited to cavity wall insulation. They also arrived with a bottle of cat shampoo. Cats are fastidiously clean. Unless you are compelled to home treat a bad dose of ringworm, there can be no reason to shampoo a cat. It's a brave person who would attempt to give a cat a shampoo and set, so I popped the shampoo in the bin, along with the cavity wall insulation, before investing in food for growing boys. After an initial terror that cats who prove resistant to potty training could not expect a long residency, all was going well. A week in the kitchen and Bob and Clive were ready to venture forth to the grand savannas of the hall, stairs and landing. Matters were progressing a pace. What I had not considered was the invisibility of the mackerel faced tabby against the old Persian rugs that litter my house. An initial choice of floor covering that would not show the dirt left by teenagers, also failed to yield up slumbering cats, who had quickly established the precise location of the heating pipes and were not to be dislodged As the weeks have passed and Bob and Clive and I have put on weight on our kitten diets, we are progressing to a level of intimacy that everyone who has been looked down on, by a cat, can only dream of. Bob and Clive are now on THE bed. It happened like this: I opened my door and put my cup of tea down on the table, closed the door and got back into bed. This was a maneuverer that took all of five seconds. As I sat back there was the squeak of an unoiled hinged, which is the sound of Clive's Meow. The fireguard fell over. Then Clive fell out of the chimney and hopped up on my clean white linen and settled in for a well-earned rest. I've blocked up the chimney and have taken to leaving the bedroom door open. I doubt my linen, or my paintwork will ever be the same again. Those boys are growing in confidence every day and have taken to lying about on the stairs. This will surely end badly for one of us. Collars with bells were made short shrift of and this morning I had a chat with a cousin thinking it was Bob. The feline soundtrack is what I've come to depend on. It's a cat guzzling urgently as if life depended on it, followed by cries of, “Clive, if you don't want to die, stop eating the cables.” END Follow the Blind Truth Blog here: https://theblindtruth.co.uk/ Image is Siobhain Santry's drawing of Clive the tabby comically falling out of the chimney with a look of utter surprise on his feline face. 

The subject of blood pressure is enough to give you hypotension. In the quest to stave of hypertension, the GP now commands that all her patients over 50 have regular blood pressure checks. The annual summons arrived in a text message that demanded that I attend the surgery and use the blood pressure pod in the waiting area to ensure an accurate measurement. A phone call was in order, to check whether this was the kind of thing I might be able to see to do. I was fifth in the phone queue and used my waiting time to walk up a hill so that by the time a person who introduced herself as a “Care Navigator” answered the phone, I was a bit on the puffing side of fit. Between gasps I set out my question. Was this the kind of thing that had been designed with accessibility in mind? “Ahhhh…I…am…just…trying…to…remember,” She said. “Yes, it is. It's in the waiting room.” My expert communication skills had let me down. I tried again. “Yes, I've got that, but is it the sort of thing you could do for yourself if you can't see?” “Well, you sit on a chair and its right in front of you.” “Has it got a screen?” “Ahhh…yes. It's got a screen.” “And how big is the screen?” I was struggling for breath now. “Well…I…should…say…from…memory, it's about the size of my telly.” “How big is your telly?” The sound of a horse exhaling let rip in my ear. “From memory, about 24 inches.” “24 inches?” I checked. “Maybe 34,” she said. “I can't remember.” As my Care Navigator plunged the depths of her memory I began to speculate about her viewing habits. Would she need a large screen to make the most of Strictly? Could a small screen satisfy? “So, you need to be able to read the monitor?” “I think so,” she stumbled. “And how big is the font?” “It's big. Definitely big.” “More than 18 point?” I thought I had better check before I trudged up the next hill. “From memory…I don't know.” I made enquiry as to whether help would be at hand in the event I couldn't find the pod or missed the chair or mistook the cuff for a coffee cup holder. “Just ask a Care Navigator for help,” she said. I couldn't resist. “Oh, like you. Wonderful. Thank you.” “You're welcome,” she said and suggested I went straight away. I said I would but not because she was having a CRAFT moment, but because all those hills had taken the wind out of me and it seemed easier than keeping the conversation going. It was only after I had ended the call that it dawned on me my Care Navigator may have been slightly misled by the tone of my request. Questions of accessibility around this do-it-yourself test may not have been uppermost in her mind as I desperately tried to keep up the pace on a particularly nasty gradient. Three hills and two flights of stairs, taken at pace, later, I found myself in the throng of a late Friday afternoon rush. “Next,' bellowed a voice from the middle distance. “Do you mean me?” “I'm coming to get you.” This Care Navigators was on it. She knew the way to the pod, the chair, the monitor and the cuff and a quick check brought total recall on how to use it. Then she shared my date of birth, my name and my blood pressure reading with a man struggling to observe the two-meter guidance, gently swaying from side the side as he reflected out loud on his own CRAFT moment and wondered why he was there. Results show I am the wrong side of hypertensive. Note: CRAFT is a term my friend Radiator overheard being used by an Aristocratic looking shopper in Fortnum and Masons. “I'm having a CRAFT moment,” she complained. When her companion asked what that was, she announced, in an upper-class drawl, “can't remember a f…… thing.” END Follow the Blind Truth Blog here: https://theblindtruth.co.uk/ Image shows multiple red squares with 'The Blind Truth' written inside them. 

Having an IT upgrade is not that exciting to me. I know there are some people who are in heaven at the prospect of a five-point switch box. I'm more of a shoe girl myself. I accidentally pressed “command y” instead of the “t”. I never knew that this is the shortcut to checking out browsing history. I've never felt the need to have a shortcut function to look at what I was looking at yesterday, but there it was: shoes, shoes, shoes and shoes. So, when the IT upgrade came I logged on to office 365 and put my username and password in. Three times I tried and was declined access. All my bad habits conspired to be revealed as I called the helpline. I wasn't' on the office 365 site at all. I was on a well-known shoe shop site of similar name. The dear old search engine was only trying to be helpful in taking me to where it thought I wanted to go. I was only being lazy in my use of my zoom function, which reveals but a fraction of the screen, at any point in time. Oh well, while I was there, surely there was no harm in looking, so I did. If you use screen magnification it's probably a good idea to get a bit of IT training to orientate you to the new IT environment in which you find yourself, the majority of which you cannot see. I know this now. Knowing it then would have saved a bit of humiliation. It would have saved me having to ring a colleague to ask what the blob on the bottom right of the screen was. “the calendar,” she said. Then for good measure she added, “the blob on the left is mail.” I probably should have felt a greater sense of shame at the revelation that I am quite such a tech deficient, but I was grateful. In my upgraded world, I have had a rude awakening. There are a lot of blobs in life that I am clueless about and it seems to me that now is the moment to throw myself on the mercy of my colleagues and hope I am not mocked for these shortcomings. I had also better get on with upgrading my skills. A long time ago I realised that relying on the Son as the fount of all knowledge was only going to bring misery for us both. Thank goodness he managed to do the basics and I know what a browser is. I've also got green and red stickers strategically positioned all over my keyboard, so I know where the shortcut keys are. I just don't seem to be able to remember what they do. Upgrading my skills had better be framed as “when it comes to tech I'm an idiot” on the basis it was better to get this observation in before someone else did. “I doubt that very much,” was the optimistic response. As the training session got underway, it became painfully clear, painfully quickly, that it could be some time before I could expect to become an alumni. In my defence I have progressed beyond Dropbox. It's not just my head that is in the clouds. There's now an unmitigated stream of consciousness that I have committed to the written format. I am rather enjoying the potential that my new found skills have to offer. There is just one thing bothering me about all of this. If I ever get to a point where I know what I am doing, what do I have to fall back on when it comes to playing the get out of jail free card? END Follow the Blind Truth Blog here: https://theblindtruth.co.uk/ Image is Siobhain Santry's sketch of Anna. 

In the holiday between Christmas and New Year the stillness of short dreary days is punctuated with bracing walks and meals. Perhaps its more accurate to say that this is the time to run down the contents of the freezer and eat the left over Brussel Sprouts between strolls. At what point though, are leftovers beyond consumption? I usually palm off my leftovers on the Right Hand Neighbours. They aren't squeamish but this year, they've declined. Could they be approaching their sell by date or have I approached mine? The sell by date seems to be fast on the way to expiring. The notion of “best before” is under threat as mountains of perfectly good food ends up in the bin. This is where I like to think I'm ahead of the curve. Only in my late twenties did I realise that “best before” dates on jars or tins existed. Since they are invisible to me I ignore them. I applied common sense in the form of the sniff test. If it smelt OK and it tasted OK, then it probably was OK. The BF did not share my world view on expiry dates. In 1997 she went through my cupboards and threw out a perfectly good jar of Worcester sauce which declared itself best before November 1986. Since the premise of Worcester sauce is that it is rotten in the first place, I suggest that this bottle was well on it's way to Christies. The BF has never made recompense for her actions although she has come round to my way of thinking, which is that if it's growing penicillin its for the bin, but otherwise you'll probably get another serving out of it. Herbs and spices are exempt from this rule. They simply turn to dust. You may as well hang on to them. You've got nothing to lose. The Christmas pudding that didn't get eaten this year has been in my cupboard for years. It's now in the fridge and will be served up to resistant friends for weeks to come. There are tins of sardines in the larder that have been there before the Son left home. Only opening them will reveal whether or not they may prove terminal. The Best before date has long since passed. Generally speaking, anything that comes wrapped in plastic which has ballooned to bursting point probably deserves determined inhalation before tasting. I don't worry about spores. That generally comes after its begun to stink. Its that whiff of “offness” I'm looking for. One proviso is worth a mention. If you, (that is I who cannot see these things), happen to serve strawberries nestling in a coat of mouldy fur, someone is bound to mention it. Be prepared for criticism. I can evidence this. Anything that comes unwrapped can probably be turned into soup once it's past its best. I plan to apply this approach to myself. Once I am past my own sell by date, I can be turned into soup in the hope of providing a nourishing aid to the vegetables that feeds the nation. Woe betide anyone who does not apply the rules of blind food management and doesn't ignore the “best before” date on the broccoli that I will grow when I'm soup. It won't be an upset stomach, that comes back to haunt you. When it comes to food waste, the blind amongst us have led the way. While the sighted majority have worried that “best before” dates are yet another way in which we cannot safely manage life, we know they are talking nonsense. Being blind to the “best before” date, and applying blind sense is where the future lies. END Follow the Blind Truth Blog here: https://theblindtruth.co.uk/ Image shows multiple grey squares with 'The Blind Truth' written inside them. 

Some of my relationships have brought great joy. Some have been transitory. Some have been long lasting and deep. None has been quite as shattering as my relationship with glass. Glass is the unseen menace in my world. Its attentions are largely unwanted and unwelcome. Just when you think you are over it, there it is again, making its presence felt. An early encounter with toughened glass left me bruised. It was the seventies and I doubt that smearing butter on the resulting lump on my forehead had any medicinal use. The lie down in a darkened room was probably more useful. Teenage folly meant that I needed more than butter to sooth the lacerations of my next encounter with glass. The resulting lump on the inside of my lip, born of over enthusiastic stitching, has served me well in moment of stress, giving me something else to chew on. A lucky escape came in trying to put my head through the invisible sash window of an upstairs bedroom in order to shout a fond farewell. At the point of contact, the window fell out. Building maintenance has come a long way since then and I doubt I'd be so lucky now. My relationship with glass has not always been a happy one, but still I persist. I absolutely adore a really good wine glass. Better still I enjoy having the right glass to drink for the right drink. Wine cannot be drunk out of plastic, as water cannot be drunk out of china. This purist approach has got me into all sorts of bother. I've swooshed glasses off the table resulting in spectacular explosions and tiny slithers of glass everywhere. Two Christmas's ago I wrecked a carefully constructed table decoration by putting my red wine glass on the step change on the table that I didn't know was there. I don't imagine anyone expected to be picking glass out of their Christmas lunch. I once listened to long account of how the precious glasses from which we were drinking came into the ownership of my host. Then I smashed one. I have carefully carried hand blown liqueur glasses back on a bucket flight only to sweep them up with the rubbish and hurl them out for the bin me. The depleted state of my glassware, which has happened for reasons now known to just about everyone I know, has led me to think again how to address its shortcomings, and I have concluded that the Champagne coupe must surely be making a comeback. Mine are long since smashed, but in the spirit of having suitable glasses for all eventualities and not finding myself having to drink the Christmas fizz out of a mug, I have been on a mission to buy more glass. So successful has this mission been that I am now the proud owner of three beautifully proportioned baccarat champagne coups that I found in a charity shop. Buying glass in a charity shops is the best way of managing the sense of waste when you (by which I mean me) inevitably smash a glass. I could not be more thrilled at the handling of my coupes. They are impeccably balanced with a low enough centre of gravity to offer easy handling. It is this proportion and weighting that offer the best chance of any glass making it through first use in this house. The fizz will definitely taste the better for it. I hope my new relationship with my champagne coupes will turn out to be long lasting and rewarding (no cracks or chips). If it turns out to be short lived, at least I will have had a smashing time. END Follow the Blind Truth Blog here: https://theblindtruth.co.uk/ Image is Siobhain Santry's sketch of Anna. 

The Artist, the one who drives the Rollscanardly, told me that her family played a lot of parlour games when she was growing up. Her siblings were keen on the Name Game. That's the one where someone writes the name of a famous person on a post it note and sticks this to your forehead. By asking lots of questions you have to figure out who it is. It might have been Mary Queen of Scots or Florence Nightingale. She got the Fat Slag. In my family we used to play Charades when Fierce Granny came to tea. This was largely because it gave us all something to do to take our mind off Fierce Granny and put her at a disadvantage if she got landed with “Wacky Races”, which she invariably did. We were more Lionel Blair than Marcel Marceau with our brash, exaggerated and unrelenting house style. We were encouraged to make large gestures for the benefit of the “gozzy” one (that would be me) amongst us. Often this would be accompanied by a murmured narration of what was going on, as well as a lot of guess work and shouting. It never networked. Other people's family gaming traditions can be equally eccentric, but not as eccentric as their approach to involving a player who can't see to play the game. There was the board game where one player rolled the dice on my behalf and another one moved my counter up and down the board. Someone else read out my forfeits, but needless to say, it was me that had to do them. Once I had to stand outside and shout “Fish frying tonight”. Worse was to follow. There are practically no good party games, with the exception of the Hat Game, which is played sitting down, requires no leaping about after too much turkey or rum butter, and allows all players free reign when it comes to describing the famous, as well as the next door neighbour, and best of all; you don't need to be able to see to be good at it. At the second of this years' family Christmas lunches, held in shifts to accommodate the completing needs of in-laws and out-laws, parlour games raised their ugly head. A palpable wave of horror ran through me. This was compounded by the discovery that not only were we all going to play games but, we were going to log on to the internet and suffer a small fee what you have always been able to suffer for free. Using our phones and tablets “as controllers” we were going to play “the wildest” “the weirdest” comedy contest game with up to ten logged on players and an audience of thousands. I was about to demonstrate that a winning quip requires accuracy in its execution. When you only have seconds, not even the Zoom function on an iPad is enough. Like the public humiliation of having your blind bowling score illuminated for the world to see, or being asked to take part in a karaoke contest in which you know you can only mouth the song, I had my answers and comic reposts laid out before an unsuspecting audience. Or at least, I had half of them laid out and not one in it's finished form. As the answers flashed up on the TV screen on the other side of the room, everyone laughed and pointed at I know not what. I was not amongst the top scorers. It was all lost on me. I put down my iPad and harrumphed a fast quip. There is nothing like throwing a tantrum to win in the game of family life. Harrumph is always Top Trumph. Image is Siobhain Santry's drawing of a grey ribbon with The Blind Truth written on it.

My friend, Septic Tank, likes to watch films with the audio description on. It saves her husband the bother of having to listen out for that often asked question “What's happening now?” There will be no snoozing in the cinema for him without the sought after audio description. She and I had a concerted effort to see more theatre and despite our distain for the musical, we couldn't resist #Fiddler on the Roof. We're soppy like that. There were a couple of audio described performances, one of which happened before it officially opened and one soon after that. Perhaps management was worried about my critical eye. Nobody told us that out of a total run of months we had a choice of two. Blink and you've missed it. “Thank you for helping us identify a training issue,” the shift supervisor at #The Vue said after the latest audio description failure. “The Manager will be in touch with you within two weeks.” She gave me two more free tickets which I've lost. I never heard from them again. Needless to say, they heard from me. One more crack pot blinky with too much time on their hands and nothing better to do couldn't move them to break their silence. No matter how many times I say “don't”, even the best of friends can't help but interpret rather than describe the action, and often predict what is going to happen next. They can no more resist a helpful “told you so” than chocolate. Art reflect life. Audio description is proving illusive. Friends are good humoured about it, but its hard to follow the audio description rules and I don't always end up sitting next to the perfect commentator. Professional audio description is the best. It's the difference between “they kiss with increasing passion…he pulls her towards him…he gently lowers her to the ground…..light fades” being piped privately through headphones in to your ears, or the person next to you leaning in and, to the annoyance of everyone around you, saying in an audible whisper “They're shagging.” The flatmate has a predisposition to fall asleep at the cinema. How soon she falls asleep and how loudly she snores is directly inverse to the price of the ticket. The more expensive the ticket the sooner she slumps and starts to snort. Asking for regular updates is a public service that saves my fellow film goers from unnecessary auditory distractions because it keeps her awake. She usually responds to the “what's happening now?” question, even if her head is down and her eyes closed. I've only had to slap her once. I took number two God daughter and her brother to see #Warhorse. It wasn't audio described and no one attempted to tell me what was going on until a small child leant in and whispered very slowly in my ear, “They're speaking German now so you won't be able to understand what's going on. I'll translate if you like.” “That's alright,” I said, not wanting to be outwitted by a seven-year old. “Ich bin ein Berliner.” Hoisted by my own petard, he helpfully provided a description in German. Afterwards he said that he had never known I spoke German. “Let's go for a pizza,” I said, but only if we speak English or French.” “Merci,” he said. I went with The Dynamo to watch #1917 (one hell of a film). The cinema was half empty and everyone had decided to sit in the middle, so we were completely surrounded, which made me think twice before asking “what's happening now?” “I'm not really sure,” she said. “Hard to describe.” Cinema is definitely better with a professional whisper in the ear. Image shows multiple red squares with 'The Blind Truth' written inside them. 

“The moment has come. Centuries from now almost all human beings have lost the ability to see.” So says the trailer for #Apple TV's new series “See”. To set the scene, “Some say that sight was taken from them by God.” “No kidding,” I say. “But something's different. After so many years. The children. They have the ability to see.” “Whoopee do,” I marvel. No. The power of sight is what you might describe as “magical” or “evil”. “Not that old chestnut”. I thought it was the other way round. On one hand a punishment from God. On the other hand, damned if you can see. All this helpfully provided with subtitles. There are armies of blind people galloping about on horses, wielding swords and spoiling for a good dust up. Blindness does not seem to get in the way of a really good fight. “See” it would seem, is doing for war what #”Scent of a Woman” did for pheromones. I know a few people that I wouldn't want to cross for fear of a poke in the eye with a white stick, but honestly and truly, I'm not losing any sleep about the possibility of visually impaired folk raising an army to take on the rest of humanity, not even to save the planet. It's not a spoiler to say, that of course, its not all fighting and reproducing. Hundreds of blind people crossing a knackered suspension bridge do plunge to their death in a moment of blind madness. Is that supposed to be funny or tragic? I'm not sure. If I say what I thought, I'm bound to offend someone. This might all turn out to be a bit of good old fashioned knock about fun but the cast seem to be treating it pretty seriously. They had a coach called Paradox Pollock teaching them how blind people move. Wonderful. They wore black out masks to get them into the groove of what it's like to be blind. The story of playing blind is nearly as gripping as the trailer. https://www.radiotimes.com/news/on-demand/2019-11-01/see-cast-act-blind-apple-tv/ . Me thinks they do over egg the experience of stumbling about in the dark for a bit, then hey presto, off with the blackout mask before the drive home. Try catching a bus you can't see. It's not a paradox. It's pollocks with a capital “B”. In the depths of my memory is a conversation between a blind and sighted man in which the sighted man explains that when he closes his eyes, or lies in bed in the dark, he gets a really good sense of what it's like to be blind. “So what happens when you open your eyes or switch the light on?” asked the blind man. “I can see again,” says the sighted man. “Then you have absolutely no idea of what it's like to be blind.” There is a redeeming feature to all this blood lust. It has provided employment opportunities to a couple of partially sighted actors. Good for them and how very broad minded of #Apple TV. That must have put them into a health and safety spin. I wonder if they let them carry a sword and drink a hot cup of tea at the same time. Alfre Woodard, who plays Paris, thinks that if the show continues they might even have a blind person playing a blind person. How enlightened. A blind person doing blindness. The truth should never get in the way of a good story. After all, I confess, I'm looking forward to series three of #”The Crown”. I might even watch #”See”. It could be big on laughs. Image is Siobhain Santry's drawing of Anna. 

“Where's the exit?' I asked, trying to beat a retreat from Café Nero Piccadilly. “First door,” my tea drinking companion replied. If you have ever been curious about what lives in the cupboards of cafes, I can put you out of your misery: There are more loo rolls than have ever been gathered together in one place. There are buckets, industrial quantities of cleaning material to deal with dirt and spilt urine. Then there are wet mops. I'm not talking damp. I'm talking “open the doors and in your face wet”. Any thoughts, about the union of mop, water, bodily fluids and face are best put aside at the moment of impact. As I beat off the onslaught of tumbling loo rolls and wet stinking mop, I could hear the rise of an ovation from the room. It was more of a sit down outpouring of nervous amusement and relief, that “it was me not me” followed by an applause of pity. “Not the first door then,” I mumbled. “I am leaving now,” said my companion, and departed. I have investigated more cupboards than most people can shake a duster at. If you tell me it's the first door on the left, that is the door I will open. All other doors are invisible to me. In a late night triste with a lock and key in Sofia, I spent so long trying to getting to get into the wrong door of my new building, for the residents to become alert to the possibilities of burglary. Rescued by a friend, I was contrite. She was indulgent. When I repeated this performance the following evening, she was less sympathetic. “What door number are you at?” “No idea,” I said, as I formulated a plan to try my key in all available doors and hope no one called the Police. Since the day I tried to get into the hot food cupboard on an aircraft, I prefer to take advise, on all possible other types of doors. One twist of the wrong handle may cause a chill wind for all my fellow travellers. “Can you tell me the way to the ladies,” I asked security as I was leaving number 10 Downing street. “First door on the left Madam.” That's what I opened. There was the red smiling face of Henry Hoover staring back at me. That's the vacuum cleaner, not the person. I find it hard to conceive of Henry gliding through the halls of power in much the same way as he glides across the floors of Acacia Avenue. I have begun to suspect, that what is obviously not the exit door or the way to the lav, for most people, may be a blind spot for me. I've developed door rules of thumb. If the door is not as tall as me, or seems impossibly narrow, I shut it again. These doors carry the threat of a mop in the face. Hot doors should be avoided at all costs. The continental habit of leaving glass doors open to the street, may be one that should be up for review. I haven't met one yet that didn't come off worse than me. If there is the slightest risk of having to enter a door code, make someone else do it. If I feel I may be at risk of prising anything open with my fingernails, my guess is that this is a wall masquerading as a door, and not in the consciousness of my advisors. The point of advisors is to advise on the unseen as well as the obvious. It's easier to change advisors than to change doors. Image shows multiple grey squares with 'The Blind Truth' written inside them. 

In the six months that I have been working form home, I have been meaning to secure my passwords, which are now abundant. I'm with an on line system. I can just about remember the password to get onto the site, but t's so long ago since anyone explained how to use the system, that I will probably get locked out. Getting locked out was once a job for a socially awkward man who arrived in a van that said “Locksmith” on the side. He knew how to gain entry to your house without a key. Getting “locked out” nowadays means hours on the phone to people who remind you that it's your responsibility to make arrangements for the recovery of your passwords and that the measure they have put in place to lock you out of your bank account are for your own good. That said, it could be a technical failure at their end. If you lose your tempter at the thought of having slogged your guts out only to find you can't get at your hard earned cash, the call is immediately terminated. I bitterly regret my lack of attention to password management. I've locked myself out of my on line credit card account. In the time I have spent on hold, a locksmith could have fitted security locks to every point of entry to my house and probably stopped for a cup of tea and a blather about how long he spent on hold when he locked himself out of his on line bank account. The dear old credit card company are trying their best At least, that's what they say. They have repeatedly told me that they are “helping” a lot of people at the moment and will get me to their customer service team as quickly as they can. Unfortunately, wait times can be up to an hour. Last week I finally got through to customer service who text me a special code. They did it several times but it never landed in time for me to enter this code within the allotted time. It wasn't all their fault. I explained that I wasn't visually equipped for fast IT manoeuvres. “That's the system,” the gabbling Shona explained. We had a good tempered discussion about alternative ways to resolve the problem then the line went dead. It was #Argos all over again. A wide experience of sitting on unanswered customer service calls by people who are “helping a lot of people” has led me to appreciate why being “helped” is such an infuriating experience and causes people to lose their temper. I know better than to fly into a rage when I'm being “helped”. I also know that making clever comments at the expense of the person who is allegedly “helping” won't help. What I have also come to learn is that “help” has an increasingly narrow definition. If you should happen to say, “I can't see to do that at that speed,” you may as well have said “I hate helpful people like you”. Either way is a good way to get the phone put down on you. If that happens you may feel the need to indulge in a bit of door slamming to let off steam. Just make sure that you have your keys in your hand. If you lock yourself out and you can't get your credit card to work, you could be sitting on the doorstep for a very long time. Thank goodness for the Right Hand Neighbour who has risen to the challenge on the numerous occasions I have been too stupid to help myself and have left home with neither cash, credit card or keys. Image is Siobhain Santry's drawing of a grey ribbon with The Blind Truth written on it.

I've been cursing the turn of the month and the annual arrival of bees up the nose which are a fair indication that the start of a winter cold is upon me. Those bees really went for it. By day two they had made their way into ears and throat and had started to become a bit of a nuisance. No matter how much I coughed they weren't going anywhere. They'd settled in to ensure a generous level of infection. It wasn't honey. By day four, doubt crept in and settled. Should I get a Covid test? Probably. Better to be safe than sorry. So I went on line and booked it. Within the hour I was at the gates of the walk in test centre. It all went smoothly until it didn't go smoothly. It didn't go smoothly. “Just follow the instruction,” she said. “I can't see them.” “The thing is, I'm not allowed to help you. You have to do it yourself. Hang on.” Then she vanished. “We don't have any braille,” she said when she returned. “I can't read braille. I'm more of a large print girl myself.” “I'm not allowed to help you and we don't have large print. I don't think it's going to be possible to do the test.” “Well how about you just talk me though it step by step.” Hats off for an extremely efficient description at every step of the way. Thumbs down for the assembled staff providing an audience and a site “Mighty” manager who was “just the contractor” and indifferent in his dismissal. The advice leaflet that comes with the self-testing kit, at the walk in centre, helpfully suggests that if you are having a problem you should “use your vehicle hazard lights and wait for someone to come and assist you.” I should have brought one of the Grand's “nee nah” toy cars. Maybe that's where I went wrong. You can never lay your hands on toy with flashing lights when you need one. While I slept, those bees got to work and there was no putting it off. I limbered up for a Vivaldi experience. A Vivaldi experience, is the hours that anyone calling their local GP practice will spend on hold as they snake their way up the telephone queue. I'll skip the bit about the Care Navigator and go straight to the Nurse Practitioner. If I thought I was having an off day, it was as nothing compared to the day she was having. Once we'd got over the challenge of describing where to go and how to get there and settled on how she would be able to tell that I was me, we fixed a time for her to “have a listen.” The rattle rattled and then I stuck my tongue out. “Oh yes, I can see that your tonsils are very red,” she said and took a step back. “That's odd. I don't have any tonsils.” “You must think me really unprofessional,” she said as more humiliations followed. The mask of efficiency had slipped. What was revealed was a humanity in our exchange that altered the encounter from efficient coolness to warm, and from warmth to satisfaction. I cannot help but reflect that so much of the way that we “care” for our health is, ironically enough, delivered without thought to our individual differences. Covid has put the tin lid on it. Government accepts the recommendations to make health services accessible to everyone, and that includes the Covid test. We need something beyond the “Mighty” roll out of testing. Illness is hard enough without having to stand your ground. Not everyone is as bloody minded as me. Image is Siobhain Santry's drawing of Anna/

The Flatmate (that was), is now up to her neck in Italian Politics and any chit chat has to be by appointment and booked ahead. We have a provisional date for a week on Sunday. In the meantime, she has celebrated living half a century. Obviously, I was not invited, because of “IT” and the collapse of air travel. I sent her a phone charger and a packet of pants for her Birthday. These are things that I know she is always short of because, mysteriously, I am now short of them. The Goddaughter was in my kitchen while I was wrapping up the parcel. I said to her, tongue in cheek, “I think anyone would be delighted to receive a phone charger cable and a packet of pants for their Birthday, don't you?” “No,” she said. “It's a bloody awful.” “What can you possibly mean?” “I'm not being funny, but if it were me, I'd prefer Gucci to a packet of pants and a manky old phone cable.” It was true. She was not being funny. I tried to redeem myself, holding up a basket I had made especially for the Flatmate (that was) Birthday. The Goddaughter examined it and scowled in disapproval. “Definitely not Gucci.” On my way back from the Post Office I sent the Flatmate (that was) a WhatsApp to explain to her that I'd sent her a present to make her laugh, but that it wasn't Gucci. A couple of weeks elapsed and I began to doubt the wisdom of my gift. Then a series of messages landed to say the present had arrived, and she had laughed and that the basket would live in her bathroom. This is inspired as I will never enter the realms of her bathroom so if she was horrified and feels the need to re-purpose the basket for firelighters, I will never know. When I came home yesterday a letter from Italy was waiting for me. I couldn't read it because it was handwritten and handwriting is not an easy thing to read. I sent a text asking if the flatmate (that was) could offer up a synopsis. She said I had better get someone else to read it to me. By great good fortune the honour fell to the Goddaughter as the first person across my threshold. I have been the lucky recipient of a letter setting out the joy of friendship: a friendship that came about by a chance introduction in Sofia and has taken in various locations, quite a bit of salad, several editions of Newsnight and the Archers. The Goddaughter was impressed with the sentiment, but wondered where Ambridge was and who Kirsty and Philip were. I explained that Philip is a crook and that the sooner Kirsty clicks on and dumps him, the better. She wondered about the BBC's involvement in this scandal. I explained that neither Ambridge, Philip or Kirsty were real and that the Covid editions had been a poor show with neither the BBC or Philip coming out of this well. The Goddaughter was perplexed. In fairness to her I looked perplexed when she tried to explain the difference between beeswax polish and Mr Sheen. “You can't use beeswax on that cupboard,” she'd told me. When I asked why, she rolled her eyes in disbelief that I, who have been polishing furniture since before she was born, could have such a gap in my understanding of household management. “You only use beeswax on certain types of wood,” she'd explained. “Not on that cupboard.” The Goddaughter and the Flatmate (that was) have both enriched my life, in their words and in their deeds. I feel lucky in my friendships. Image shows multiple red squares with 'The Blind Truth' written inside them. 

The Grand was having his morning nap. The Son was working away in another room and not to be disturbed. The DiL got out her laptop and was busy. I decided to take myself off for a walk. I thought I'd go for a mooch, have a look at the house I lived in when I was a student. It was not how I remember it. I'd take that walk across the common that I used to do. It had changed. Not even the old laundrette where we sat for hours listening to the sound of our clothes on an endless spin cycle, was the same. It began to rain so I went in search of a café I once frequented. It was there but not the same. At the counter I asked the server if he could bring the tea and the muffin to the table. He said he could. I paid with my card and missed. He gently took my hand and guided it to the point of the card reader bleeping and then let go. “I'll bring it over,” he said. If you do a 180 degree turn there's an empty table about two meters behind you.” “Thanks, that's great.” As I put my card away I noticed a large sign on the counter. “experienced Barrister wanted. Apply within.” What did a coffee shop want with a Barrister? At the table I picked at the muffin and played with the tea bag, moving it around in the cup. If this cafe had cause to revert to the law, this was a funny way of going about finding legal counsel. If it were me, I'd google it, or ask Siri to find me solicitors within a mile of here. Advertising seemed an unorthodox way of going about it. “Is everything alright?” the server asked. “Oh fine, lovely. Thank you.” “It's just that you look worried.” “Just thinking.” Now I could have taken the opportunity to ask why the café were advertising for a Barrister, but I didn't. I finished my muffin and sipped at my tea. I had to spin it out because I could hear that the rain was still coming down outside. So there I sat, perpetually checking my phone and wondering how desperate the café's legal conundrum was. The phone rang. I saw a long since contacted name pop up “How lovely to hear from you, how are you?” “The same as I was when I spoke to you earlier.” Without the benefit of detail, I'd guessed wrong. “I thought you were someone else.” We chatted and then I reverted to my now cold tea. Outside, it was still raining. Time moved on and there was no putting it off. I would have to brave the weather. “Let me get the door for you,” the server said. “I've been putting it off because of the rain,” I explained. ” It's not raining any more. It's the background sounds we play. You're not the first person to notice that. It's not raining outside any more.” As I walked down the road it occurred to me that they weren't looking for a Barrister but a Barista; someone to make the coffee, from the Italian for bartender. In my world, a Barrister is more expected than a Barista. That is how I made sense of a sign I could not clearly read. When the phone rang I saw Julia not Julie. Small visual mistakes can make the world of difference to how you see the world. You would think I would have learnt, by now, that if something seems unlikely then it probably is. Hope continues to triumphs over experience. Image is Siobhain Santry's drawing of a Barrister behind a café counter.

The Grand can now walk independently. I have been surprised that he can out manoeuvre those of us who have more than half a century of experience on him, and should be able to anticipate his every move. Apparently I can't. It's all coming back to me now. When the Son began his life as a self propelled person I had the same trouble. I could never anticipate the direction he might dart off in if something caught his eye. He had the advantage of being a good few feet nearer the ground than me. What's more, he had the edge over me when it came to spotting items of interest. It was hard enough to spot the Son let alone a possible trail of breadcrumbs. Where I might be interested in popping into a shop to explore the beauty and tactile delights of a bit of hand thrown pottery, a one-year-old is much more interested in a well appointed manhole cover. If a determined toddler can't manage to lift the lid to see what lurks beneath then never mind. There is always the gully that runs around the edge. Manhole designs have changed over the years, but still they lend themselves to the accumulation of a range of potential treasures. Toddlers have not changed that much, but they too lend themselves to the accumulation of treasure. Both the Son and the Grand, seem to have been hard wired not to be able to resist a treasure hunt. So much the better if you can find treasure where no one else is prepared to go. When it comes to a manhole cover the Grand is fearless. Quick as you like he's back up on his feet and passing out fag ends to anyone who wants one. “Doit” he commands. I know that “Doit” doesn't mean throw it as far away as you possibly can, but that's what I do. “ewwee” I say, pulling a face. He does the same and then wipes the residue from the top of the manhole cover all over his other hand. This is made easier because it rained a bit earlier on in the day. When the Son was small we were walking down the road when he suddenly bobbed down to retrieve a used prophylactic. “That's a useful little bag,” he said, handing it to me. It might have been once but was not destined to be so again. “Now you may need to keep an eye open for treasure,” The DiL said. He likes bottle tops and acorns and everything goes in his mouth.” She was right. Thanks to the Grand I now know that you could probably play a game of Twister on the proliferation of bottle tops lying about on Tooting Bec common. You are never more than a stretch away from one. I know this because the Grand and I, made very slow progress on our walk as he stopped to pick them up. I drew the line at abandoned bags of dirty nappies. The acorns got stashed in my pocket. The desire to be a good enough parent was as nothing compared with the desire to be a good enough grand parent. In the scheme of things does it matter if I can't spot fag ends and bottle tops and I'm not much cop at Twister? There is always a way round these things. I can turn it into a game. Or, I can say “No” with the most serious expression I can muster. I could throw a Granny tantrum. My fall back position is to use the had sanitizer that would appear to be one of the Granny perks of a global pandemic. Image is Siobhain Santry's drawing of Anna walking with a small child, the child pulling behind them a big recycling bin. 

The Sister has a wonderful garden. It's awash with colour and raspberries. It's full of interesting quirks: Planting, statues, places to sit, bee hives and fruiting trees. We enjoy a stroll. She tells me what she's been up to in the garden and I throw out the odd comment. “That's nice. I like that,” I say encouragingly. “That's a lump of concrete I dug up.” I'm not deterred from commenting on her efforts even though I seldom have quite enough information to make an informed comment. “That's interesting. Are those a couple of stone lions standing guard to the artichokes?” “that's the legs to the garden bench.” She's only laughed once when I asked “what is that? Some kind of sculpture?” “It's a plant and it's dead.” The Sisters' garden is a place we sit and drink tea and blather together. She's quite accomplished at blathering as well as gardening, and she makes a decent cup of tea. After she'd made the tea and while she was blathering I began to consider the beautiful wave of pale grey blue under her garden table. What a good idea to let the grass grow and enjoy the impromptu wave of blue flowers. “I really like what you've done under the table,” I said. “Thanks,” she said. “It's a work in progress. I just haven't got round to finishing it”. “You don't need to do anything. It looks great, and it means you don't have to move the table to cut the grass.” “Of course I move the table to cut the grass.” Generally, it's best to stop digging if you feel yourself sliding into a hole. I shut up and had to consider the possibly that I had made an assumption too far. A moment of reflection would surely reveal a route to discovering the mystery of the blue grass under the table, without making myself look a total idiot. After a bit more tea and a lot more blathering I asked her how she did it. “It's modelled on a polystyrene manikin I got from the dump.” How she got from a polystyrene manikin to a mist of blue flowers under the table was a bit of a mystery. We were looking at the same thing and saw two different scenes. We were talking at cross purposes. I gave up. “What is that under the table?” When the nights were dark, the Sister had started to make a sculpture out of chicken wire. She had used the polystyrene manikin as her template. The gentle wave of blue was, her abandoned chicken wire sculpture of a female torso, who now lay recumbent under the garden table, rocking about in the breeze. A closer inspection revealed that rust had set in to her work of art. The polystyrene manikin, had been mauled by dogs and lay mortally wounded on its side. The Sisters' planting is clever but she had never considered the possibility of letting the grass grow under the table. Next year, on the first decent day, when we're eating our lunch outside, busy scratching and slapping our ankles between bites of food and the irritating jaw of insects, the sister may explain that it was my idea to let the grass grow, but obviously not a good one. The Sisters' garden is a triumph. She knows a considerable amount about gardening. I know very little about it and that's reflected in the endless varieties of geraniums that have found a spot to flourish in my own patch. The Sisters' garden may be the gold standard of gardens, but at least mine is not littered with bodies masquerading as clever planting. Image is Siobhain Santry's drawing of a grey ribbon with The Blind Truth written on it.

We're living through Goldilocks weather. It's been too hot to sleep. Then it was too wet for my tomatoes to ripen, too cloudy for the runners to flower. The plums at the top of the garden are now looking glistening pink, but even the satisfaction of an endless supply of plumb jam has limits. I'm restless. All of this against a backdrop of staying at home. The daily constitutional is getting to be a chore. What do you do to pep it up a bit? I take every opportunity that comes my way. I've tried the zoom dinner party. I've got a film list I'm working my way through. I've extended my reading into new territory. All of this is well and good, but what I really crave is something a little more visceral: something that offers a less thought through reaction and just brings a moment of joy. The God Daughter has been going to the beach. “Are you mad?” I asked. It wasn't a question but more of a statement of fact. “Why would you want to sit in a traffic jam and compete for space with thousands of other people and their litter?” “No no no,” she said, wagging her jewel encrusted fingernail at me. “I go when it's empty. I go before they have even thought of getting out of bed.” “Night swimming?” “Sort of. We leave at five…am,” she said. “you can come if you like.” “You're on.” It was like being in Varna. I woke up. I put my swim suit on. Granted, eighteen degrees is not the same as August on the Black Sea but some things were the same. The God Daughter was in full regalia, nails sparkling as she swung the steering wheel into action. “Have you got your swim suit on?” “Course not.” She looked horrified at the prospect. I just sit down. The boys like to go in. You go in if you want. Far too cold for me.” “I once swam in an arctic lake,” I explained, then realised that I was now fully committed. At the beach, there was no one about, unless you count the volunteer litter picker who had been hard at it since before my alarm clock had gone off. “Nippy,” he commented, pulling down his woolly hat. “You going in then?” “In a minute.” I said, bracing myself. Taking the plunge, the cold water woke up all my senses. Being lifted up by the waves was a thrill. Swimming against the tide was exhilarating. How often do you have a beach to yourself? I could swim for an hour in the knowledge that no one was going to crash into me. I was not going to garrotte a small child over the head in an act of front crawl. It felt more than good. “I'm terribly sorry,” a small voice next to me said. “No I'm sorry.” I swam left. The small voice swam right. We practically collided. Then I went right and she went left. How is it possible that in the expanse of the English Channel I'd managed to crash into the only other swimmer who couldn't see where she was going? Here we were, two middle aged women, splashing about in the certain knowledge there was no one to collide with only to collide with each other. The sun was up and the beach was filling up, so we packed up and left. “You've got loads of room Love,” the God Daughter scoffed at a woman gingerly manoeuvring her way out of a tight spot in the car park. I like to think the other swimmer was the passenger in that car, smiling like me. Image shows multiple red squares with 'The Blind Truth' written inside them. 

The Toad is right up there with the viper when it comes to expressions of morality in literature. He's the method by which feminine goodness is put to the test and the punishment for mean or shrewish behaviour. What then, is the meaning of this? I like to sit in the garden when it's dark. The cloak of darkness brings privacy and I enjoy that moment when the sun fades and a feeling of stillness begins to make its presence felt. There is a big old rat that takes short cuts across the garden. I've never seen it but others have. The rat doesn't bother me and I don't bother the rat. So, when I heard a rustling in the shrubbery I assumed that was just Ratty making his nightly foray into next doors garden. It was not. Tilting an ear for clues as to what that was, lurking in the undergrowth, a toad hopped onto the seat next to me and settled itself in. I knew it was a toad because I had initially mistaken it for a fallen leaf. Putting my hand down to sweep it away was how the toad and I became acquainted. Acquainted might be a bit of a stretch. It was more of a blind date moment when you suddenly realise that you had better make your escape, by any means possible, for fear of impending physical proximity. I fled inside, but as I was closing the kitchen door, the toad made a dash for it and vanished into, or under, the sofa. The Right Hand Neighbour was away so I needed a plan. I am not the first woman to have wondered how to dislodge a toad from the sofa but I might be the first one to have done it with Tupperware. With little chance of being able to see my unwelcome guest, I threw down Tupperware containers in the hope of entrapment, and waited for the sound of toad against plastic. Not on the first attempt, it has to be said, it worked. Once caught, I threw him out. Cleaning up the mess was not the end of the matter. The toad was throwing himself against the door and was still at it when I switched off the lights and went to bed. It's habitual, to throw open the kitchen door first thing in the morning. In came the toad. It was no good trying to deter him. Once a toad commits to a course of action he has no choice but to see it through. He simply doesn't have the means to reverse, but he did have all the toad moves. Not even Tupperware could do it this time. What was I to do? Should I call for assistance and change the locks? I've been vigilant. I didn't want to live with a toad but that toad now makes himself known whenever he gets a chance.  He's leapt courgettes, scaled tables, settled on benches and even tried to share a glass of water. No matter how revolted I am at the prospect of the companionship of a toad, he's ground me down. Unless I stay inside with the doors locked or can impose upon the Right Hand Neighbour to lie in wait, I'm stuck with that toad. I cannot help but wonder if, in the telling of this tale, it should be woven as a test of femininity, in which it took a toad to show me the error of my selfish ways. Or, is it simply that if you can't reliably see that toad you are probably stuck with him? The toad has moved in. I'm thinking of naming him Roger or Trevor. That's another story. Image is Siobhain Santry's drawing of Anna siting on her coach with a big green toad lounging next to her. 

The topiary at the top of my garden is definitely due a hair cut. I've resisted doing it myself because a lack of three dimensional vision has lead me to the conclusion that I have no skills in this department. Months of covid lockdown have lead me to the same conclusion about my own hair. The only thing that I can say about cutting my own hair is that it would be shorter. Some relief has come about, over recent days, at the thought of a garden that is running wild, inhabited by an owner with wild hair, once clipped to within an inch of their lives. It has come about because I lost my reading glasses. I lost them without noticing, which shows how much use they are. I have been looking for my readers, for over a week now. I have looked in the dishwasher. I have done a meticulous finger search of nearly ten days of household waste. I have been through the mounting bags of charity shop donations as well as the ironing, the washing and my phone book, asking anyone who has dropped off food at my door, or sat in my garden for the proverbial two-yard cuppa, to check they have not taken them away with them. Relief was at hand. Not the glasses, but the availability of a hair dressers appointment and gardening assistance. I've waited for months and both came along on the same day. “Ewe. I've found a pair of glasses in your flowerbed,” said the garden support team. “Are they yours?” I must have lost them leaning over a plant I inspected, working out whether or not I should pull it up and consign it to the recycling, or water it. The blind truth of the matter is that I didn't notice the scattering of spectacles in the flower bed and sprinkled them with a light dusting of mushroom compost that had to go somewhere because the bag burst. One look at the glasses told me they were beyond redemption. Getting a replacement pair is proving harder than expected. I need an up to date prescription. That is, I don't need an up to date prescription as it makes no difference to me. The Opticians seem to think it's important. A quick e-mail revealed that not only was my Optomitrist on his hols but he'd gone to Slough for his respite. On his return he tells me that my prescription is in storage in Coventry and not to bother asking why. I don't. When I explain to my local high street provider that I don't need an eye test, my ten-year-old prescription will do, no one rings me back. I suspect they suspect I'm calling from #Down The Line. Their fear of making a fool of themselves in front of Radio 4 listeners trumps further enquiry. Who in their right mind would buy reading glasses with an out of date prescription? A good dousing in #Fairy Liquid and hot water has eliminated most of the mushroom compost staining. The blur is much the same as it ever was, apart from the large blob in the middle of the left lens, so I have started wearing the readers again, at a tilt to counter balance the blob. In the drive for better looking glasses I lost my chance to book a hair appointment.  I can probably do without one, but unlike the prescription for my reader, there is always room for improvement. I will be nothing if not persistent. The garden is looking beautiful, although not by my hand.   Image is Siobhain Santry's drawing of Anna's face. 

If you attend one of the great masked balls of Venice, its said that you will not recognise your own reflection in the waters of the Grand Canal. With anonymity assured, anything goes. So the question is, dare you enter the world of masquerade and let go of your inhibitions from behind the secrecy of a sophisticated and stylish face covering? The rules of social distancing forbid such cavorting. Anyway, the three-layer paper mask, in fetching medical blue or gorgeous medical white, does not offer the seductive powers of carnival and is more asphyxiation than intoxication. On the grounds that it has to be done and you should probably try everything once, I've been giving it a go. The on line advice is that you should wear a mask unless it obscures your residual vision. Sitting in my kitchen it didn't. The on line advice is also to practice walking about at home to get used to it. I did it for a week and every time I moved my head I couldn't help but wobble. Even though I didn't fancy a lie down, I felt it may be forced upon me with every step. So, I had a sit down and a think. This was a job for the long cane. My cane technique is improving with the demands of Covid. The cane is like getting your head round your computer. You might not fancy it, but the more you flex the muscle the better it feels and the more in command you are of what you are doing. Off I set in the quest for the veg that I had forgotten to order on line. The heavens opened and by the time I arrived at the point of “are you the end of the queue?” I doubt I was recognisable to even the most ardent of carnival goer. On the up side, this was life and I was living it. “Next customer,” came the command from oblivion. “Do you mean me?” “I need you to go this way?” “Which way do you mean? Can you say the way?” “That way?” “This way or that doesn't mean anything to me. I can't see.” “Over there.” “Hello,” I drawled, waving my cane about. “Next customer.” “OK, I'm coming in.” “Unbelievable,” came a low murmur from behind me. She did not mean me. “I'm turning right for tomatoes,” I bellowed and pressed ahead. Amazing what I find I am prepared to do, and broadcast about, in my love of a baby plumb. I needn't have bothered with any of this, because round the corner, John and Bill, and their veg, stall were back. I knew because I heard John shout at me. “Didn't the cough carry you off?” “Not dead yet then?” I batted back. “Have a tomato Love.' I did and then I bought another half kilo for good measure. Hardiness is a quality that I temporarily misplaced last Saturday in the rain. I'm taking the view that, even with a cane, the wobble may not be a price worth paying if I have a hope of remaining upright. I've been on line again. I've downloaded the badge that says “I am exempt from wearing a face covering.” I hope I won't need to use it, but if John and Bill ever run out of tomatoes, I might just need it. The weight of all those tomatoes impeded my usual desire for a walk home. I had a sit down on the bus and wore my face mask all the way. While I wasn't moving I wasn't wobbling. Good job it wasn't standing room only. This might not be Venice, but a mask is simply a must if you can. Image shows multiple grey squares with 'The Blind Truth' written inside them. 

I have had a glimpse of Hell. I have swum the waters of the Styx and crawled up the bank on the far side. I did it all in the hunt for the single stem garden plant support. When I say I swam, it might be nearer the truth to say that I sweated my way up the hill in a waterproof in more humidity than I anticipated. Having spent half an hour in this endeavour, I arrived at the gates of hell to be met by a stout woman in a green apron and fetching matching blue face mask and rubber gloves. “May I go straight in?” I asked, pointing at the gaping jaws that opened and closed as they spewed out shoppers and ingested the unsuspecting. “Get away from me she commanded.” Her large blue hand extending towards my face Lord Kitchener style. “Move,” she barked. I took a step back. “You'll have to queue.” “I'm sorry. I didn't realise there was a queue,” I said, vaguely wafting the all purpose cane about in front of me. “Well there is.” She turned away. “Where do I need to go? ” I asked. She didn't answer but started a conversation with someone else. I blundered about a bit and took out a couple of posts that were strung together with invisible cord to denote the place we had to queue to pass through gates of Hell. As we snaked our way forward, our instructor said to the man in front of me. “it's so nice when people think about others and OBSERVE the social distancing rules. Thank you. It's lovely when people are considerate, unlike SOME people.” “Take a trolley and you can go in.” “I don't need a trolley,” I said, doing a bit more cane jiggling. “It's the rule. If you don't take a trolley you can't go in.” I took the trolley and wobbled towards the entrance. There must have been a roaring trade in hazard tape because they seem to have completely sold out, and had resorted to, giving us poor sinners, mere clues. We navigated our way through the circles of damnation; through lighting, bathroom fixtures, all the way to paint and garden accessories with the merest hint of a clue provided by grey arrows on a grey floor, which everyone largely ignored. There was not a blue fingered angel in sight to guide us on our way. Magically, help was at hand. The single stem plant support was in stock and could be found in one of three places.  Disappointingly, that particular bit of magic was a mere illusion. None of the three places yielded it up. All was not lost though, because they were definitely in stock. It was just that nobody knew where they were. I didn't know where I was either. Having spent an afternoon crashing about in #Homebase, in a state of infernal damnation, in search of enlightenment, I now found myself at that special place in Hell, reserved for Brexiteers and hapless shoppers like me. I was in the final circle of damnation, where the chill winds, of having to pay for the privilege, now penetrated my bones, to the cry of “cards only”. This too, was a commandment that had passed me by. Having breached the first blind commandment of Covid, “though shalt not go shopping,” I had looked the dangers of disobedience in the face and survived. With a scaled back bus timetable, I had met and surpassed my daily exercise ambitions and managed a couple of grumpy exchanges with real people in real time. Then I did what anyone else would have done. I went on line. Delivery is tomorrow. Image is Siobhain Santry's drawing of Lord Kitchener wearing a face mask and blue latex gloves pointing.