I spent half an hour this afternoon trying to sort out a matter to do with the re-ordering of medications. I got nowhere, of course, as is usually the case when trying to sort out anything these days. All I met was wrong advice, general dysfunction, a website that didn't do what it said on the can, and a reminder that British culture really is cracking up. This afternoon's business related to the NHS, which is gradually weakening ever since Mrs Thatcher -- whose primary dictum was, rather tediously, 'Nothing counts unless it sells' -- made friends with Ronald Regan and switched us to the American method. I suppose I'll have to try again tomorrow. I wonder how long it takes to die if you stop eating.
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On a more positive note, we had a fledgling wild fire in one of the fields up the lane two nights ago. Several people stopped to help and those from the nearest cottage came down the road armed with large canisters of water. Together we put it out, and just as I said: 'It needs spraying now or else it might flare up again' (because I'm a bit of a whizz with fire, having been an amateur arsonist as a child), the fire brigade turned up in a big tender and sprayed it.That was my first contribution to a communal exercise in many years. And one of the four firemen was actually a firewoman. She stood around 5ft 1 in her fireperson's boots, and I asked her whether she has to carry fourteen-stone men around for practice. 'Yes,' she said. 'And can you do it?' I asked incredulously. 'No. I drag them instead.'
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