Stop! Thief! Freeze in Hell ...

PERHAPS it is good that my mother-in-law cannot remember. She celebrated her 85th birthday yesterday at a residential care home targeted by - how should I put this? - complete bastards.
I was so incensed that I put together a few paragraphs for our evening newspaper and Anglia Television:

Heartless thieves hit a new low when they syphoned off hundreds of litres of heating oil at a residential care home to leave a group of vulnerable elderly people at risk as temperatures plummeted below zero.

The cold-hearted criminals drained the half-submerged oil storage tank within the electronically-gated grounds of *** **** at Little Downham on the outskirts of Ely on Wednesday night or the early hours of  Thursday morning and, in doing so, completely shut down the central heating system.

Care staff handed at the 27-bedroomed home handed out blankets and shawls during the day as residents were left without heating for most of Thursday. A plea also went out to relatives for free-standing heaters and radiators but the central heating was restored in the evening following an emergency delivery of oil.

A spokesperson for the home said: “I just can’t believe that someone could do this to old people. Just how low can someone stoop?”  

I visited in the morning to wish my mum-in-law all the best on her 85th big day, to drop off a few goodies and to hand over a couple of birthday cards. She was initially slow to recognise me as she sipped her mug of milky tea and chatted away to her best pal, who is 99. 

"Oh, it's you. You haven't changed at all since I last saw you." That occasion was last week, by the way.

During my stay, a member of staff was handing out shawls in one of the lounges to residents who were feeling cold. It was then that I found out about the shocking theft. It was not noticeably chilly to me but then I am not eighty-plus. No sniggering at the back! I also told mum-in-law that I would be visiting again in the evening with my wife when she had finished work and promised more pressies. Sadly, this information was retained for all of 20 seconds. The same could be said about her birthday. She simply didn't remember, even though various carers were wishing her many happy returns etc, etc. Good old Alzheimer's, eh?

"It's my birthday? Really? I must be about 70 I think."

When her actual age was revealed, she said, simply: "Oh, I wasn't far out then." 

This conversation was repeated several times before I left.

My wife and I went back later as promised and the central heating had just been restarted after an oil delivery, so at least the residents were spared freezing to death. It will come soon enough for many of them, but being helped to your grave because some arse decided to nick the oil is unthinkable.

Mum-in-law was thrilled to see her daughter, as you would expect, and pleased to see me "after such a long time". There was absolutely no recollection of the earlier visit. Still, she was equally delighted with her presents which she unwrapped in the privacy of her room rather than a lounge full of chairs and walking frames. We then sat together round a table in the dining room and chatted away for a good hour. Mum-in-law, who now suffers from incontinence quite badly, struggles even more to find the words she wants to use and has almost no short-term memory, was in high spirits to begin with, but her mood quickly changed.

"I don't like it here. I want to go home," she said.

"They're good to me here, people speak to me, but I don't do anything. And it's not home. I don't want to die here, so how long have I got to stay?" [She lived with us for three and half years but it seems home to her is a pastiche of dwellings, houses in which she has lived and the accompanying memories which are fading fast.] 

I felt so sorry and, if I'm brutally honest, so very uncomfortable. She continued:

"I do have a house, you know. [No she doesn't.] I want to go back there and walk down my garden path. I'm fed up just sitting here doing nothing." [There are organised activities each morning, staff are always talking to residents and there is a constant stream of visitors. But she is right. It isn't home.]

My wife dealt with the situation brilliantly and in a delicate, sympathetic manner. I stayed stum. Not known for my diplomacy and tact, you understand. She changed the subject to her mum's birthday, the cake she had been presented with and her presents. Cliche, I know, but it really was as if a switch had been thrown, the mood changed, her concerns forgotten in an instant and she rediscovered her high spirits. As we left, she resumed her place in the high-back chair next to her pal who was nodding off. A handful of Werthers Originals wrapping papers lay discarded by her side.

The journey home on that freezing March night was marked by feelings of guilt and sadness. Could we have done more to keep her at home with us? Could we have still coped as her condition deteriorated? Was she in the best place? Sadly, the answers are clear. She is being given the expert care and attention we simply cannot provide. Yes, we'll continue to visit as often as possible and to take her out for the odd day trip and for meals, but there's no getting away from the fact that Alzheimer's is such a cruel disease. 

We'll miss Martha - and so will the Vandellas

What a sad day in our household. Martha, the hen with attitude and soul, has passed away after a short illness. Yes, Martha, our first hen, the chicken who adopted us, has gone to that great coop in the sky.

Our feathered friend will be missed: Martha (left) and the Vandellas

She had been off colour for a couple of days and last night she was very subdued under the henhouse. She barely moved and was not particularly interested in food. Most unlike our girl. I carefully lifted her into her quarters and she simply hopped into her own nest box - there are four - and snuggled down in the clean straw. It was business as usual for the busy Vandellas, Mrs Pepperpot and Ruby, who were oblivious to their old pal's plight. Heads down and tails up, they tucked into their evening nosh while Martha looked on quietly as I shut them all away for the night.
This morning, old Martha, remained in her nest and it was obvious she was not feeling well. She wasn't interested in food or water, and barely moved as I stroked her feathers. Her breathing was erratic and I feared the worst. My wife then went down to see her, too, but there was little we could do other than to make her comfortable and she died shortly afterwards, still in her very own nesting box.
Martha's appearance into our lives was unusual, to say the least. She belonged to neighbours who were losing their hens to foxes at an alarming rate two and a half years ago. This was mainly due to the fact that their quarters were not secure. So Martha took it upon herself to swiftly vacate the premises, unlike her more timid feathered friends who were all eventually devoured.
Her destination was our house and she began to hang about in the back garden. Unknown to me, my wife had started to feed her with bird seed in an upturned frisbee and water was provided in an old dog bowl. Indeed, our soft Labrador seemed to hold no fear for Martha and Sweep, the Spaniel, was a mere puppy.
She would suddenly appear from under a bush or emerge from a shrub in the mid-afternoons, wander about rooting for grubs, eat what had been put out for her and then disappear. We later discovered that she was sleeping behind a garden shed. We tried, unsuccessfully, to catch her because the cold November weather was beginning to set in but Martha was so quick and easily evaded all farcical attempts to corner her.
But after a week or so she turned herself in - on her own terms. I was in the lounge, my wife was in the kitchen; the back door was ajar as Hector, our laid-back Lab, lumbered off to do a wee. My wife suddenly called out: "I think you'd better come in here. We have a visitor." Yes, you've guessed it. Martha had officially joined the family by stepping inside the house as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Up to that point, although we had a new, empty coop, we had decided to delay having hens until the following Spring. That decision was brought forward somewhat by Martha's unexpected but welcome arrival and a couple of days later we brought in the Vandellas to give her some company and complete the happy group.
The neighbour seemed pleased that we had taken her in but, if we're honest, there was no way she was ever going back there after adopting us. She had two and a half extra years and we like to think she had a good, comfortable life. She provided us with plenty of eggs and much amusement as she talked to us while on our laps, as we sat on the bench outside the coop. She is now buried, wrapped in a pillow case, a few yards from the bench.
Yes, we'll miss the old girl but she will never be forgotten. Suffice to say, the cold, grey Fens have looked particularly bleak today. There won't be any Dancing in the Street tonight.

Witches, wind turbines and cracking tales from the Fens

Where's my dinner? Reg loves vegetables in cold weather

PLEASE accept my apologies for the lack of blog activity. It's been some time since I fiddled with my faddle! November, in fact.
So much has happened during that short time. Christmas and a new year have been and gone in a flash; the mad weather in this country continues to defy all logic; floods, replaced by snow storms, freezing weather, a hint of Spring and now a combination of the lot. Our paddocks are half submerged ... and that is not going down well with our pygmy goats, who confine themselves to barracks - otherwise known as the stable - when it gets really bad. And they chomp their way through a considerable amount of hay and chopped vegetables. In fact, they do that all year round but cold weather means extra large portions. Not that our animals are spoiled, you understand. Greedy buggers.

Winter wonderland: Down the garden just a few weeks ago

    Random highlights in my absence: Catholics have lost a German Pope and gained an Argentine replacement - the hand of God? - while the wacky world of politics continues to dominate headlines, as always. What ARE your views on the findings of the Leveson Inquiry and the outcome? Do you give a monkeys? You should.
    Barack Obama is sworn in for a second term, while there's no swearing in the care home as my mother-in-law continues to happily hold court from the comfort of her armchair alongside her 99-year-old sidekick; the UK is not, apparently, in a double-dip recession but has been downgraded to a AA credit rating - limited battery life, presumably.
My son's Autumn wedding date is fast approaching, far too quickly for the credit rating of my wallet and no doubt that date in court is also looming far too quickly for Blade Runner Oscar Pistorious. So many jokes, such bad taste. But keep them coming.

Muddy hell: Heavy rain hasn't gone down well with our gang

Man United are out of the Champions League, but the Reds march relentlessly towards another Premier League title - with the help of record-breaking Ryan Giggs - under the guidance of footballing deity Sir Alex Ferguson (should have done the Pope line here); but Man City, without headline-maker Mario Balotelli, have surrendered their crown. Oh, and well done to Wales for retaining their Six Nations Rugby title after giving England a right good thumping.
There's more, so much more that's happened in the outside world while here in the windy, mucky, muddy, expansive Fens, life moves on at a predictable rate in pace with the seasons. The local surgery is about to gain a GP as the current doctor eases into semi retirement, while plans for housing developments continue to be proposed at an alarming rate - almost as quickly as it takes town councillors to declare an interest and leave the room. Wind turbines are still appearing on the Fen horizon; blow the villagers, but more power to the landowners who line their pockets. Green energy? No, it is really about greenbacks

There has been so much going on in our household of late, although that really isn't an excuse for not rattling off a few paragraphs every now and then.

Witch way? The village sign
 Wikipedia

My long-suffering wife is back on her feet after her fall last year and the hip injury has healed well. She has returned to work and she is now based about 15 miles away in a place called Warboys, famous, or infamous, for a dark past. 
The Witches of Warboys is the phrase used to describe the accusation of witchcraft, trial and execution (by hanging at Huntingdon) of Alice Samuel and her family between 1589 and 1593. If you delve into this sordid chapter, you'll discover that the Cromwell family feature prominently and the episode has left an indelible mark on the village which now has a sign of a witch on the clock tower, on the village signs and even on the school badge. And it also possible to see the Manor House next to the church where the alleged acts of witchcraft took place.
But I digress. It isn't far to work for my wife so the journey is a doddle for her, even without a broomstick!! Do I leave that in at the risk of testicular bruising? Yep, I'll take my chances.
Another nearby village about 11 miles away and just across 'the border' in Norfolk (pronounced Norr-fock) is also associated with witchcraft. Upwell was visited by Matthew Hopkins, infamous Witchfinder General, in 1646. It seems this unpleasant fellow was absolutely obsessed with his (very well paid) job - such a bonus when you get paid for something you really enjoy, don't you think? - and was apparently responsible for the death of more than 100 women in East Anglia before he met his own end after suffering from consumption - tuberculosis or TB to you and me.

Water wonderful view: the village of Upwell

Upwell is a smashing little place, with a 'creek' passing through it carrying canal boat tourists in the summer. There are some imposing houses harking back to a more wealthy age, and a couple of excellent old-fashioned butchers. And I must mention the superb chippy called Navrady's. It's well worth the 22-mile round trip just for the cod and chips, as my wife and I can verify.
The ducks are the only ones who seem to appreciate this horrible wet weather. They have a decent-sized compound which keeps them safe from foxes but I now allow them to roam around the paddock for a few hours most days if there is someone about. And they show their gratitude by laying three big, pale turquoise eggs every day. The bantams, who have real attitude, have also started to lay their delightful smaller eggs while the big girls - Martha and the Vandellas - are down to one egg during the winter, although they are whoppers. In fact, we have so many eggs we're now giving them away almost as quickly as they are being laid ... and relying on folk to supply us with empty egg boxes in return for half a dozen of our finest. At least they don't have to shell out because they really are quite eggspensive (sorry about cracking that poor yoke).
Right, I'm calling it a day, but I won't leave it so long to post more stuff about what's going on in the Fens.
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