THE same surgeon wielded his scalpel on the knees of both my father and my wife last week. Both patients are recovering and able to take a few steps—in my father’s case, the first that he’s taken for some months. I’m now in awe of anyone who’s caring for someone long term and I have much to learn from my mother and others.
Our children, too, have discovered parts of the house that they never knew existed, such as where the iron and Hoover are kept.
The cooking is interesting—we each take turns. A smart restaurant would called it fusion food, but, in reality, it’s an odd mixture of whatever we can find in the fridge thanks to my haphazard shopping. The terriers have been the beneficiaries of the odd disaster, but even they couldn’t face my burnt risotto, caused by my feeble attempt at multi-tasking.
Outside, the tall pink spires of the rose bay willow herb light up the verges and signal that we’re at the height of summer. There’s too much to do, but blink and we’ll miss it. MH