We’re a couple of old crocks, he and I. Our last two drawing visits to the coffee shop have involved long, detailed conversations with our fellow coffee drinkers about hearing aids and hip replacements. The first took place last Friday where the builder who used to do work for his ex-girlfriend’s second home in Borth was sitting at the next table. He was just off to collect his new hearing aid from Specsavers. He’s a little younger than him, but they shared ‘deaf’ stories never the less. The hip replacement chat was yesterday. I had cried when we’d got there. Self pity over the discomfort of it had got to me. An hour later the small man (or ‘chap’) as he would call him, came in using a crutch. We hadn’t seen him for a while either in the shop or on the Prom. He’d had the op. Best thing I’ve ever done, he told him. I was waved over to come and listen when I saw them talking after going to the loo. He’d seen us at the hospital for my last appointment, apparently. Had I noticed him? Maybe. Anyway, he was full of praise for the care he received. And the pain, he said, went right away. My issue is that he is 73 and I’m not yet 60. Is it something I did? But I am opening my mind to it. The pain comes and goes, as does my self-pity (which is the worst of it). I walked this morning in the rain (the smell of wood smoke a compensation for the wetness) . And I will continue to do. Won’t I?
More about the circus tomorrow.
