I’d forgotten how unpleasant it was.
You had your last screening in 2017, the girl in the reception (a glassed-in cubicle in the entrance to the raised up portacabin parked in Morrison’s car park) informed me. Though things were different inside. There were no other women waiting for a start. I was directed to a fold up seat in a corner and told to read the notice on the wall while I waited. Did you know that you can actually contract breast cancer from having a screening? Do you still want to go ahead? said another girl in the screening room. I was trying to work out her accent, was it Yorkshire or Newcastle? She was kind and as gentle as she could be as she man-handled my chest, ribs and back trying to get me into position. Screening can be uncomfortable and embarrassing, the notice had said. Yes. My poor little breasts squeezed between two pieces of hard, cold Perspex. It was most ungainly. Try to relax, she kept saying. Drop your shoulder, that’s it. Are you happy to continue? What can you do but see it through and try not to think about the radiation? The relief is good, when it is done.
They covered out windowsill. Tiny flies. Were they fruit flies? Such infestations always make me itch. I didn’t want to kill them but saw no choice. Left to their own devices the front hall would be riddled with them. So I washed them away. Bless them.
My sweet peas are near flowering. Gosh, I’m excited. I get a distinct whiff of their scent. What a joy!
There was a dead black bird on the pavement along North Road. It’s wings were all splayed out and its beak and eyes opened. It looked small. Was a fledgling? Everything was in tact. How had it died?
On the last count our neighbour has five bird feeders.
