Keeping in Touch.

This week I’ve been very busy doing things that didn’t seem worth writing about, so that's why I haven't written anything. Take today for example:

I drove to the doctor’s to find out why they’ve been trying to contact me, and also to pick up my meds. The first was discovered but unresolved; the second was unsuccessful because the pharmacy was closed for lunch. So then I drove to the hospital in Derby for my CT scans, only to find that the mobile CT scanner unit wasn’t where the starchy admin woman on the phone told me it would be. (She treated me like a naughty little boy but was easily dismissed. Such people usually are.) I found it eventually and was put through the usual process of sliding in and out of something like a washing machine just as the spin cycle is starting. It was about as much fun as it usually is, but I did meet a woman from the Philippines, a man from Nigeria, and another man from Sri Lanka. I quite like meeting people who come from somewhere else.

Then it was back to Ashbourne to pick up my meds from the pharmacist, who I quite like because she has good energies and understands my sense of humour. Off into town next to get my week’s groceries. The checkout operator was one I haven’t seen before and appeared to be inexperienced because she failed to charge me for one of the fancy bread rolls I’m planning to have with my home-made soup later in the week. If only I hadn’t used all that petrol driving nearly fifty miles I would be 45p in profit on the day. But I did, so I’m not.

See? Not really worth writing about, apart from the fact that driving past the signpost for the village of Shirley reminded me of the odd fact that the name has attained a level of elevated significance over the past few years because of the people associated with it – two authors and a light bearer.

Tonight I watched the penultimate episode of Wallander. He went jetting off to Latvia and met probably the best looking of his several belles (and nearly got shot for his efforts.) Latvia looked even glummer than Sweden, but it probably isn’t. Wallander’s new Volvo isn’t black, by the way. It’s dark grey, which might or might not be the director’s signal that spring has arrived in Sweden.

Oh, and my smarty-pants desk lamp – which looks decidedly Scandinavian – broke down tonight. I sense a pattern emerging.