Party on, Dude, but I’m Still Blaming the Dog!
It was my birthday last Friday. No cards, please; it’s far too late. Anyway, considering the world’s supply chain disruption, I’d be well on the way to my next by the time it arrived!
Just a small social gathering of immediate family. Six of us demolished 150 quids’ — that’s English argot for sterling — worth of Thai takeout with nary a grain of black rice left. Usually, that amount should defeat us. It’s easy to see why it’s our fave establishment.
My sister-in-law had kindly made me a lemon drizzle cake. It was covered by a few candles and I even had the energy to blow them out. Then I remembered that we had the perfect liquor to accompany it — homemade Italian limoncello, a present from my wife’s cousin for looking after his dog, Dexter. He had gone off to visit his husband’s Italian family and gave it to us on his return. It is delicious, but also deliciously over-proof.
I was in bed way after my normal bedtime, but that made no difference to the metronome of my new multiple sclerosis (MS) routine. No matter how bad the hangover the next morning, it’s back to 9 a.m. and my wife Jane’s new role as sergeant major, yelling at me to get up. Amazing, because I’m pretty sure she downed one of them thar limoncellos.
Awake, 9 a.m. for pills, 10 a.m. for ablutions/shower, 11 a.m. carers/put in wheelchair/lymphedema wraps applied. I may be occasionally exhausted by this relentless routine, but at least my family isn’t.
Little time to recover as we were soon off to our next social gathering, this one miles away from us. We live on the very outskirts of South London. So far south that south of us the green fields start! This was a return to the north of the river where, coincidentally, Jane grew up. Luckily, I was still in contact with a Black Cab driver who was happy to take us. All London Black Cabs are wheelchair accessible, and his was also the latest bigger model. My powered chair is a monster!
This was a wonderful gathering of friends and family built around a Ceilidh, a traditional Scottish dance party. Young and old learned how to reel and everyone danced except me. I was invited to have a go, but I figured that I might take out a few ankles. Especially as, by this time, I’d certainly be defined as a drunk driver. Incidentally, in the U.K. if you are caught over the limit on a public sidewalk in a powered chair, you will lose your driving license. I’ve never heard of it being enforced, but it is a sobering fact. Perhaps I was informed of that during my chair induction lesson.
Next morning, it was up and at ‘em again. This is no life for an MS party animal!
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