8th September 2012 Saturday
It’s the day to pick the apples - warm and dry and no other plans. For some reason I always associate this day with my uncle in Canada who was visiting us a few years ago around this time....photos in the album of him with us all in our sitting room and the next photo is me squatting on the kitchen floor sorting the apples into boxes.
My husband climbs the ladder with a plastic bag tied to his belt and when it’s full he hands it down to me and I start the job of grading the apples according to size and ripeness and blemishes. There are loads more than I expected as we lost so much of the blossom this year.
In between apple sorting I start pruning the waving wands of honeysuckle and branches of the old climbing white rose which is reaching for heaven. I notice the pussy cat keeps visiting the same the spot under the escallonia bush. Then I smell it across the whole garden and I know he’s having a problem. I clean him up.... ring the vet.....go and collect another tube of kaolin paste...get some down his throat.....it’s supposed to help diarrhoea.
It maybe the lymphoma has spread to his bowel - no way of knowing without more tests. Living with pussy cat sick on the carpets is bad enough, living with pussy cat pee on the bed is awful but living with random pussy cat poo is my worst nightmare. That’s probably why I’ve got it.....the next thing to face.....
Listening to The Last Night of the Proms makes me cry - all those old familiar tunes embedded in my mind......my husband recognises some of the music but not the lyrics or the composers. It suddenly feels lonely being the only one on the sofa who knows the words to Auld Lange Syne.....
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