Monday
I open my eyes to a different view. I’m away—but returning to real life (whatever that is?) this afternoon.
I’m still doing that course on the dark arts of Copywriting. It’s being delivered right in the middle of Nottingham, so off I trundled in the FLE.
Anyway, copywriting: a word that tries to sound cleverer than it needs to be. I’m thinking of rebranding it as writing copy—less Hogwarts, more honesty. But what is “copy”, I hear you cry? That’s where it all gets a bit misty. On a basic level, it’s writing stuff—ads, websites, newsletters… that kind of thing.
The course itself is good. But I don’t think I’m doing this “being disabled” thing very well. Getting inside the venue (NTU) is fine—but getting there? Nightmare. I’m sure there are better ways. Have I found them? Nope. Why? Because I’m too stupid to look. Still stuck telling myself to “just get on with it.”
So yes—officially stubborn, officially stupid, officially broken.
Tuesday
April Fools’ Day. Jeez, a whole day just for me, apparently.
I didn’t risk venturing far on such a ‘dangerous’ day for us Nobodies. We’re the ones most likely to miss the trick and laugh too late.
So I stayed in Joe. Made tea. Opened the laptop. Edited The Mandrake Murders. It’s getting closer, folks. Hoping to publish by June—watch this space.
Later, I tore myself away from the island of death, Abbey, Kit, and their adventures, to venture to the Peak Railway café. The electric bike was dusted off, and I met ‘Im Indoors and the Terror Twins in the very sunny outdoor seating area. (They walked. Show-offs.)
Lovely spot. Good scran. But a warning: it closes at 3pm most days. Don’t dawdle. It’s also prime spot for a natter with folk wrapping up dog walks and cycle rides.
On the way back, we stopped at The Church Inn. Just for one, of course. (You know how it is.)
Wednesday/Thursday
More editing of The Mandrake Murders today—interesting to me, maybe not to you. Yet. But once you read it? Agatha Christie meets Ian Fleming. Sounds odd, but then again, have you seen the news lately? Russian subs lurking in our waters? Stranger than fiction.
Also been thinking about my health. And how I keep pretending that it’s just a rough patch I’ll bounce back from. But it’s not. I’m never getting back to where I was. That’s a hard truth.
So what now? I’m trying to accept this new version of living. I might not beat the degenerating spine, but I need to live my life in a different way. The key word there is ‘live’. It’s a long road—but recognising it’s the road I’m on… that’s something, right?
Friday
Hayley and Andy (niece and nephew) joined us on site today. They’re the “young people”—both in their forties. Their three-year-old caravan finally made it out of the garage and into actual use.
First time they tried to use it, years ago, they rang us from the campsite while we were still trying to dodge Royals in Sandringham woods.
They told us they had a waterbed. In a caravan. Which, for the record, is not normal. Turns out a pipe had burst. Since then it’s been less a caravan, more a very expensive wardrobe and cupboard.
But! Apparently it’s now fixed finally. Rebuilt. Ready for action. Fingers crossed.
Saturday
We’ve been on the hunt for a second-hand Cobb oven. Outdoor cooking magic—but pricey. Finally spotted one online. Had to jump into Mrs FLE sharpish and head to Doncaster before it slipped away. Victory was ours. Cobb oven secured.
Back in Darley Dale, we decided on another pilgrimage to The Church. So many sins, so little time. Sadly, the actual church was locked. So we went to the Church Inn instead. From the garden table we could see both the church and the Peak Heritage Railway trains chugging by.
I insisted on a wander through the graveyard. I’m a sucker for a good one. Perfect for naming characters and brewing up spooky mysteries.
After all that walking (hobbling), praying (welllll), and drinking (reverently), we needed food. The Cobb is brilliant, but took some figuring out. ‘Im Indoors got grumpy—apparently concentration and conversation don’t mix when flames are involved.
Still, the meal was tasty. Maybe that’s the secret: cook with rage. Worked for Gordon Ramsay.
Sunday
Home day. The temporary site was closing and, truthfully, it was time. We hadn’t been away this long since just after Dad died—that bittersweet trip to Moray in 2023, part-holiday, part-clearing out Auntie G’s home 450 miles away. That house is sold now. Funding her care. So much has changed. It has definitely been a journey.
Still our house isn’t sold. Not even for sale. But the grass is growing, the post is piling up, and the bungalow needs us.
Still so much to clear out. Will it ever end?
Note: The caravan survived the whole weekend with no disasters. Cue cheering. And possibly a miracle.