A compelling new chapter for the Fens

Fit for a king: the new departures concourse at
King's Cross railway station

I used to read at least one book a week commuting to London on the days I didn't need to drive. The afternoon railway journey into the capital allowed me an hour's reading time while the tedious trip home on the last train from King's Cross in the early hours gave me a further 20 minutes.
Thankfully, I am now spared that debilitating routine.
No more trips from Platform 9B at about 1.40am on the Vomit Comet, a somewhat inaccurate label from passengers since it was - and presumably still is - a train which takes in so many stations as it heads slowly to Peterborough. Nothing like a comet, but the vomit part was often correct. The journey could be a real sickener. Ugh. Too much information.

Say Cheese: the cover of a menu at
Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese in Fleet Street

The downside is that book reading has suffered at the expense of a less stressful lifestyle. Up until a few days ago, I have been dipping in and out of the odd novel. Not so much a reflection of the author's talent as my ability to be easily distracted. There's always something else to do.
London now calls just once a week, although I did travel in by train a few days ago to meet up with former colleagues at the [Ye Olde] Cheshire Cheese in Fleet Street.
The pub, which was destroyed by the Great Fire of 1666 and rebuilt the following year, has been frequented by many famous people - I'm not referring to Piers Morgan here - such as Charles Dickens, Mark Twain, Dr Samuel Johnson and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Last week, however, the famous establishment, with its dark wooden panels, open fires and sawdust-covered stone ground floor, had to make do with a bunch of ne'er-do-wells. It was a enjoyable to have a good chinwag with some good pals, and to take the compulsory trip down Memory Lane. It was also a great opportunity to begin reading a book on the train.

Fleeting glimpse: St Paul's Cathedral dominates the view from
Fleet Street looking across Ludgate Circus

Unlike many of my fellow passengers, I opted for the orginal, a Kindle Mk I, which was a good old-fashioned paperback. I've nothing against Kindles, a great piece of kit, but I felt the need for a real book on this occasion. One with pages of paper. Remember them?
And my choice of author? Well, I decided it was high time I actually started something written by a highly commended local author, so I chose Jim Kelly, whose blog can be found on this link: http://www.jim-kelly.co.uk/.
What a great choice. I raced through The Water Clock, following the escapades of journalist Philip Dryden against the backdrop of my very own Fens. I am now hooked on the novels of this compelling writer and I am just about to embark on another Dryden tale, The Moon Tunnel.
I am pleased to say that my enthusiasm for the talent of Ely-based Mr Kelly is shared by others far more qualified to pass judgment. Here is just one of many tributes that sums it up for me:

Cover of The Water Clock

"Kelly's evocation of the bleak and watery landscapes provide a powerful backdrop to a wonderful cast of characters . . ."

Praise indeed.

And here's Fenman's contribution:

"A big thank-you to Jim Kelly. It's about bloody time I started reading books again." 

Feeling at home on an Autumn day in Fenland

Mist photo opportunity: crooked telegraph poles mark out this
quiet Fenland road amid the noon Autumn gloom 

My wife's mum has now been living at the care home on the outskirts of Ely for three months - and she already seems to be institutionalised.
It is no surprise that she quickly forgot she had been living with us in our Fenland village home for more than three and a half years. After all, she inhabits that frightening, twilight world shared by every poor soul who suffers from Alzheimer's Disease.
And yet even though my wife and I know her memory is fading fast - and will continue to deteriorate - we cannot help but feel a deep sense of sadness over the fact that she shared our home, consumed our thoughts and shaped our lives, and yet has no recollection so soon afterwards.
She now possesses just the odd piece of genuine recall to go with her jumbled collection of memories. A giant sepia jigsaw of fading past impressions, with pieces being lost or misplaced at an alarming rate. http://alzheimers.org.uk/  and  http://www.alzheimersresearchuk.org/home/
She remains in the care of a great bunch of professionals while my wife continues her recovery after her accident [see previous post Hip hip hooray! Friday, July 20]. It's a long road, a bumpy old Fenland drove, but she's slowly getting there.
My wife's mum was sleeping in a high-backed chair, head slumped on her chest, when we arrived armed with a few goodies, including a couple of packets of her beloved Werther's Original Butter Mints. They were one of her husband's favourites, too. Those and jelly babies, ice cream, cakes, plain crisps, meat pies, roast beef, chips, bacon sarnies, full English ... actually, the list is endless. Yep, he did like his food, sweet and savoury.
In the television room next door, a familiar hymn was being half-heartedly sung by a visiting vicar and a handful of residents, with accompaniment from a shaky electric organ played by a frail-looking nervous lady. It was like a scene from the League of Gentlemen.
"Wakey, wakey," said the care assistant as she gently prodded my mother-in-law's still form. "You've got visitors."
Her eyes shot open and she stared at her daughter through the thick lenses of her large-framed, old-fashioned specs. Recognition was instant, thankfully. Occasionally, she struggles for a name, but not today.
The three of us plonked ourselves down in the warm conservatory overlooking misty paddocks and fields, and surprisingly for the this area, a few hedgerows and a large variety of trees dressed in rich red and yellow autumn colours. It was an uplifting sight on a chilly, damp day encased by a huge leaden Fenland sky.
We talked for well over an hour. Well, to be truthful, my wife and I listened while she spoke, even though the words she wanted to use often eluded her. The thoughts of Chairman (woman) Meow. Mum-in-law was in a particularly catty mood. The claws were out and nobody was spared.
The clergy, God - or "Him upstairs" - religion in general, her late husband, politicians, her mother, other care home residents ... all took a verbal bashing, despite our attempts to lift her mood. It was obvious she was tired. We recognised the signs. Perhaps an unsettled night.
But then the uncomfortable spell was broken as residents began to shuffle though to the dining room next to our cosy conservatory, some with the help of carers, others with the aid of frames and a few under their own steam. Roast dinner. A glorious, unmistakable smell was in the air and mother-in-law suddenly became aware, turning her head towards the growing clamour behind her as the dining room filled.
"It's lunch-time, mum. It smells good," said my wife.
"Yes it does," she said as she picked up her cumbersome dark blue handbag and stood.
"You'd better take your seat or you'll miss your meal," added my wife encouragingly.
"Yes, you're right, dear. They serve some nice food ... sometimes," replied mother-in-law mischievously as she disappeared through the door.
"We'll see you again soon, Mum," called my wife.
Mum-in-law glanced back in our direction, but seemed preoccupied by matters of the stomach.
"Yes, take care dear. See you soon. Now then, where shall I sit? Shall I sit here?"
In that instant, our visit was over, soon to be forgotten.