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(aka Bike) Part 728 by Angharad |
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The next morning I felt somewhat better and managed to wake up and go out to the sitting room the same time as everyone else. Admittedly, I was clad in nightie and dressing gown and looked like the wreck of the Hesperus on a bad day.
The girls were laying the table with Stella supervising and Tom handing out the bowls and cutlery. “Well, well, look who’s here,” he said and beamed at me.
“Morning, Daddy, girls, Stella.”
“Mummy, Mummy,” came from three smiling faces and each one demanded a hug and a kiss. The kiss was on the top of the head, so unlikely to pass on my virus, although I didn’t think it was infectious any more anyway.
I helped dish out the cereals and pour milk and then had to sit down because I felt dizzy. Stella handed me a cup of coffee. I was about to protest when she looked sternly at me, I was half awaiting her to say, “Drink that, it’ll put hairs on yer chest.” In which case I’d have declined the offer.
I suggested that I was a bit weak after being in bed for a few days. Tom agreed and the girls looked anxious. “What does dizzy mean, Mummy?” asked Mima.
“It’s a strange feeling, like the room is spinning around and you think you might fall over. It can also make you want to be sick.” All three of them then made disgusted noises.
“Maybe we should get your BP tested,” suggested Stella.
“I thought that was petrol?” was my reply.
“No, you twit, blood pressure.”
“Oh, I had that tested by the doctor the other day, didn’t I?”
“Not as far as I know, you didn’t.” Well I assumed she was with him the whole time.
“Oh, okay, I will next time I see him.”
“No you won’t, I have one in my room somewhere.”
“One what?”
“A sphygmo.”
“A sphygmo?” repeated Trish, “what’s that?”
“A sphygmomanometer is a device for measuring blood pressure,” Stella was on her professional territory.
“What’s that?” asked Trish.
“Well, we all need blood to be pumped all round our bodies, including to our heads. If there isn’t enough pressure, it doesn’t reach up to our heads when we’re standing up and we faint. If it’s too high in pressure we could have a haemorrhage somewhere such as a stroke.”
“A stroke?” Livvie wasn’t familiar with the term.
“A cerebrovascular accident–a bleed in the brain. If you have a bleed somewhere, the tissues beyond it don’t get any oxygen or nutrition and they start to die. If it happens in the brain, we call it a stroke, CVA, TIA if it’s a small one or a hemiplegia if it paralyses half of the body.”
“Stella, can we skip the medical lecture, I feel bad enough without thinking I’ve had a stroke.”
“Cathy, you haven’t, if anything you fainted when you bent over after your blood pressure dropped from bed rest. It drops when you lie down.
Mima got off the chair and looked under mine. “What are you doing, Meems?” I asked.
“Looking for the thing you dwopped.” Stella and Tom had to turn away and even then I could see their shoulders quaking with laughter.
I ate a slice of toast after Stella threatened to force feed me. She does have a way of encouraging one to eat; and when she rolled up her sleeves, I began to think she could be serious.
I was sent to sit on the couch in the lounge while two girls fought over who should read to me first. Meems stayed out of that one, coming and cuddling up with me instead. Livvie won the battle of the readers but shortly after she started, I drifted off to sleep. She was heart broken, if only I could have stayed awake a little longer. I didn’t really go off to sleep properly, I was aware of little fingers running up and down my leg–least that’s what it felt like.
“Why does Mummy have smoov wegs, Daddy got haiwy ones?”
“Mummy’s a lady, only boys and men have hairy legs,” Livvie’s voice said.
“Have you gotted haiwy wegs, Gwamps?”
“Aye, but they’re nae as hairy as they used tae be.”
“Why?”
“I’m an auld man and they get less as ye get aulder.”
“Me doan want haiwy wegs,” exclaimed Mima who burst into tears to emphasise the point. It was at this stage I woke up and comforted her. I have discovered that things which one expects to frighten kids don’t, and things they should laugh at, frightens them – go figure.
I felt better for my little nap, and I allowed three little girls to haul me through and into the shower–after divesting me of my night attire. They all stood outside the bathroom while I showered and then escorted me to the bedroom while I dressed.
“Me can see, Mummy’s boobs,” giggled Mima.
“A lady wouldn’t be looking,” I threw back, but it was lost on her although I had a bra on before anyone else could see them. Personally I thought they were rather nice extensions of my personality – or as Simon put it, showed I was quite pneumatic. I didn’t think they were that big but…
I dressed in jeans and a top, the top was red to give me some colour, and I dried my hair and pulled it into a ponytail. The next hour was spent playing with the girl’s hair, Meems had a ponytail, Trish a single plait and Livvie two pigtails. Trish read to us while I did the other two’s hair and Livvie while I did Trish’s plait. It was nice but I really didn’t feel up to much and listening to a child droning on, wasn’t made any easier by my fatigue. I was aware of the term post-viral fatigue, now I knew what it felt like. I could have slept on a clothes line.
I’m sure that as they get older their reading will improve. They manage to get their tongues around most words, but it’s read in a monotone. I know, they’re only five and these things take years to mature. Anyhow, I wasn’t up to improving them today. I let them get on with it.
I helped Stella serve a Salade Niçoise for lunch, I hoped I might be able to taste the tuna in it. If smothered in Branston pickle, it was half edible. The children ate theirs and said they enjoyed it, so that was okay. I ended up on the sofa again and this time I really went off to sleep, waking at tea time when a cold jar of something was touched against my face. Simon was back and had ordered a meal to be sent up for later on. I was so ecstatic I nearly slept through his announcement, except he had touched a bottle of wine to my face, which made me jump and open my eyes. The girls thought it was very funny.
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The Wreck of the Hesperus
Typical sentimental drivel of the times, but many had to memorise it.
Wreck of the Hesperus
It was the schooner Hesperus,
That sailed the wintery sea;
And the skipper had taken his little daughter,
To bear him company.
Blue were her eyes as the fairy flax,
Her cheeks like the dawn of day,
And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds,
That ope in the month of May.
The Skipper he stood beside the helm,
His pipe was in his mouth,
And he watched how the veering flaw did blow
The smoke now West, now South.
Then up and spake an old Sailor,
Had sailed the Spanish Main,
"I pray thee, put into yonder port,
for I fear a hurricane.
"Last night the moon had a golden ring,
And to-night no moon we see!"
The skipper, he blew whiff from his pipe,
And a scornful laugh laughed he.
Colder and louder blew the wind,
A gale from the Northeast,
The snow fell hissing in the brine,
And the billows frothed like yeast.
Down came the storm, and smote amain
The vessel in its strength;
She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed,
Then leaped her cable's length.
"Come hither! come hither! my little daughter,
And do not tremble so;
For I can weather the roughest gale
That ever wind did blow."
He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat
Against the stinging blast;
He cut a rope from a broken spar,
And bound her to the mast.
"O father! I hear the church bells ring,
Oh, say, what may it be?"
"Tis a fog-bell on a rock bound coast!" --
And he steered for the open sea.
"O father! I hear the sound of guns;
Oh, say, what may it be?"
Some ship in distress, that cannot live
In such an angry sea!"
"O father! I see a gleaming light.
Oh say, what may it be?"
But the father answered never a word,
A frozen corpse was he.
Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark,
With his face turned to the skies,
The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow
On his fixed and glassy eyes.
Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed
That saved she might be;
And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave,
On the Lake of Galilee.
And fast through the midnight dark and drear,
Through the whistling sleet and snow,
Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept
Tow'rds the reef of Norman's Woe.
And ever the fitful gusts between
A sound came from the land;
It was the sound of the trampling surf,
On the rocks and hard sea-sand.
The breakers were right beneath her bows,
She drifted a dreary wreck,
And a whooping billow swept the crew
Like icicles from her deck.
She struck where the white and fleecy waves
Looked soft as carded wool,
But the cruel rocks, they gored her side
Like the horns of an angry bull.
Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice,
With the masts went by the board;
Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank,
Ho! ho! the breakers roared!
At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach,
A fisherman stood aghast,
To see the form of a maiden fair,
Lashed close to a drifting mast.
The salt sea was frozen on her breast,
The salt tears in her eyes;
And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed,
On the billows fall and rise.
Such was the wreck of the Hesperus,
In the midnight and the snow!
Christ save us all from a death like this,
On the reef of Norman's Woe!
--- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Wreck_of_the_Hesperus
-----------
Casabianca was better, and it's by a woman:
Casabianca
The boy stood on the burning deck
Whence all but he had fled;
The flame that lit the battle's wreck
Shone round him o'er the dead.
Yet beautiful and bright he stood,
As born to rule the storm;
A creature of heroic blood,
A proud, though child-like form.
The flames rolled on–he would not go
Without his Father's word;
That father, faint in death below,
His voice no longer heard.
He called aloud–'say, Father, say
If yet my task is done?'
He knew not that the chieftain lay
Unconscious of his son.
'Speak, father!' once again he cried,
'If I may yet be gone!'
And but the booming shots replied,
And fast the flames rolled on.
Upon his brow he felt their breath,
And in his waving hair,
And looked from that lone post of death
In still yet brave despair.
And shouted but once more aloud,
'My father! must I stay?'
While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud,
The wreathing fires made way.
They wrapt the ship in splendour wild,
They caught the flag on high,
And streamed above the gallant child,
Like banners in the sky.
There came a burst of thunder sound–
The boy–oh! where was he?
Ask of the winds that far around
With fragments strewed the sea!–
With mast, and helm, and pennon fair,
That well had borne their part–
But the noblest thing which perished there
Was that young faithful heart.
--- Felicia Dorothea Hemans
Notes:
The poem commemorates an actual incident that occurred in 1798 during the Battle of the Nile aboard the French ship Orient. The young son Giocante Casabianca (his age is variously given as ten, twelve and thirteen) of Commander Louis de Casabianca remained at his post after the ship had taken fire, and all the guns had been abandoned; he perished when the flames caused the magazine to explode.
Cheers,
Puddin'
-
Cheers,
Puddin'
A tender heart is an asset to an editor: it helps us be ruthless in a tactful way.
--- The Chicago Manual of Style
Casabianca
We had a cod version of Casabianca at school when I was about 10. All I can remember of it now is:
It was also the poem that Nancy and Peggy Blackett—the Amazons—had to "learn" so they could recite it to their dreaded Great Aunt Maria (pronounced Mar-I-a, not Mar-ee-a) in Arthur Ransome's Swallowdale. I use quotes round learn because they had learnt already it at school, so they were able to get away from this particular holiday task and get away to see their friends, the Swallows.
Ah, memories, *sigh*
Gabi.
Gabi.
Picts and Martyrs?
Isn't that P&M, what with the GA and all?
Cheers,
Puddin'
P.S. No, SD after all. Captain Flint admits that the midday owl's put a weight on his conscience, to say nothing of Casabianca... - P
-
Cheers,
Puddin'
A tender heart is an asset to an editor: it helps us be ruthless in a tactful way.
--- The Chicago Manual of Style
I know two silly versions...
The boy stood on the burning deck
His legs all covered in blisters,
He hadn't got his trousers on
So he had to borrow his sister's.
The boy stood on the burning deck
His body all a-quiver,
He gave a cough,
His leg fell off
And floated down the river.
Angharad
Angharad
More silly poetry
(Aside - wahey! Caught up at last - only took 3 weeks to read all 728 chapters!)
I've always known the last poem (the limerick) in a slightly different form:
She stood on the bridge at midnight,
Her heart was all a-quivver.
She gave a cough,
A leg fell off,
And floated down the river!
Then to continue the silly poetry theme, try and get your heads around this:
One fine day in the middle of the night,
Two dead men got up to fight.
Stood back to back and faced each other,
Drew their swords and shot each other!
Authorship of each unknown - probably lost somewhere in the dim and distant mists of history...
--Ben
As the right side of the brain controls the left side of the body, then only left-handers are in their right mind!
It continues...
One blind man to see fair play,
And two lame men to carry them away.
There are all sorts of nonsense rhymes:
T'was in the month of Liverpool
In the city of July,
The rain was snowing heavily
Yet the streets were bare and dry.
The elephant is a bonny bird,
It flits from bough to bough.
It makes its nest in a rhubarb tree
And whistles like a cow.
In days of olde
When knights were bold
And women weren't invented
They drilled some holes
In telegraph poles
And went away contented.
Angharad
Angharad
One more!
In days of olde
When knights were bold
And condoms weren't invented
They put a sock
Upon their c***
So babies were prevented!
--Ben
This space intentionally left blank.
As the right side of the brain controls the left side of the body, then only left-handers are in their right mind!
Cute stuff, but as to The Wreck of the Hesperus
I prefer George Harrison's version on the album Cloud Nine
I mean, on that mid eighties album we had Ringo, Eric Clapton, Elton John, Jeff Lynn among others as his backup singers and band. Sort of The Traveling Wilbury's prequil. A number of gems on it including The Devil's Radio, George's rant against mindless talk radio and the lies and half truths it spews.
Think of your *favorite* hate monger as you listen. By the way, the refrain is "Gosip gosip"
John in Wauwatosa
P.S. And Casablanca? Bogart hand's down
John in Wauwatosa
Gossip...
Interesting word, from "godsibling," someone with whom one is presumably on warm and intimate terms. Thus, to gossip, to talk with warm familiarity with a dear friend, one bound to you by mutual obligations. At one time, it meant simply "woman friend" or even "woman," because that's what women do.
Cheers,
Puddin'
-
Cheers,
Puddin'
A tender heart is an asset to an editor: it helps us be ruthless in a tactful way.
--- The Chicago Manual of Style
no poetry from me
But glad Cathy seems to be on the mend.
If Cathy Ever Gets A Yacht?
Will Spike be the Captain? Well, maybe she can have a Spike dream from the virus.
May Your Light Forever Shine
May Your Light Forever Shine
Cathy's yacht
Knowing Cathy, she'd probably 'Spike' the mainbrace, or something similar. I wouldn't have thought a bottle on the cheek was very friendly; offering a pick-me-up (or to pick me up) would definitely gain brownie points. But, then again, my other half isn't Simon.
I wonder what the future holds for our 'healing angel'? Perhaps Bonzi knows but hasn't told Angharad yet; that means we've no chance.
Susie
Healing future
Of course, only Angharad / Bonzi will know what the future holds...and even then, it'll only be a glimpse of the future, from about 1/2 hr before pressing [Submit]. But it's fun to speculate...
For fairly obvious reasons, it's probably a good idea to try and keep the family out of hospital - as once there, Cathy will find it very difficult to resist temptation - especially if Sam Rose happens to be visiting a patient at the same time!
So, that doesn't necessarily mean she has to 'give it up' - she could still heal, as long as it's in private, with as few people surrounding the patient as possible. "Healing acceleration" (i.e. where the patient already has a chance of healing [albeit very slowly!] without Cathy's intervention) would probably be better than the type of healing she's been doing recently, as (a) it would attract less suspicion, and (b) it would require less energy - so wouldn't knock Cathy out for so long.
As Cathy's secret identity appears to have been revealed, amidst the negativity and rushing around to avoid the tabloid press and paparazzi it might be nice if one positive event occurs as a result - Brit posting / emailing a thankyou... which could potentially lead to another invite to the wedding (let's see, give the family a chance to settle down and plan it - chapter 800 (nice round number)? Or maybe even 864 (12*12*6)?) and/or an extra pair of hands around the house...
While the children are each adorable in their own way (e.g. Mima's innocence and pronounciation of "L" and "R" as "W"), it would be a shame if we have to wait two more years until Mima's in school before Cathy can resume being a biologist / project manager / film maker / dormouse juggler & breeder / anti-thug device / archer / rescuer of babies caught up in RTAs (plus anything else I've missed!)...
Besides which, AFAIK Livvie hasn't met Spike yet - the one time she was taken to the uni, the dormice had been temporarily rehoused and Cathy denied access.
--Ben
This space intentionally left blank.
As the right side of the brain controls the left side of the body, then only left-handers are in their right mind!
Poetry- an interlude!
I'm biased toward Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, as he's family. Back a few years ago, when I was knee high to a grasshopper, around 1810, one of my forefathers married Henry Wadsworth's sister. I can now see that you Angharad are a very talented and educated writer who knows good poetry. "The wreck of the Hesperus" is a well know and loved poem. I do have to admit the the expression could become a cliche.
Thanks for showing us that our super heroine is really human.
Hugs,
Trish-Ann
~There is no reality, only perceptions.~
Hugs,
Trish Ann
~There is no reality, only perception~
Interesting
Well, Cathy, rest time is over! Time to get moving again! Hup hup!
What does he call the pickles? Virgin pickles ?
The Hesperus came ashore on Norman's Woe in Manchester, Mass. 12 miles from where I'm typing . The Poet lived 1/2 mile from where I sit.
Cathy's not ready to leave yet.
CEfin