We were supposed to be going out tonight. To a Murray Downland Trust talk. The sort of occasion we don't usually miss. But... the Captain was off early to do his conservation work for the Trust, and I set off early for Waitrose. I need to get a particular space in the carpark where I can't be blocked in. My knees are not very flexible now and if someone parks close to my driver's door I can't get back in the door.
One of the unexpected things about getting old is having to make innumerable calculations of this sort.
Anyway. I shopped. Lugged the bags slowly and painfully up the stairs - our lifts are out for a few days - awaiting a new thingummybob - and cooked a chicken so we can have chicken salad for the next couple of days. After lunch I rang Jean, picked her up, visited Maggie, stayed about an hour and a half, she seems very well all things considered - dropped Jean back home - toiled back up the liftless stairs - collapsed on sofa - Captain B arrives and says he has decided we are not going out tonight. He can't face any more driving.
I was so happy! I feel terminally tired and a quiet night in in front of The Great British Bake-off is exactly what the doctor ordered.
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