Retaining information

Posted on December 12, 2025 by thepogblog

Someone in Mum’s dementia unit can read and retain information.  Dont get me wrong, this is great.  For them.  Less so for people like me.

Because, to keep people safe in a home such as Mum’s there are key pads on the doors and to use the lifts.  The codes (apart from the main door) are written in these little pictures hung by the key pads:

Only the picture next to the lift on the dementia unit has been removed.  Which is not ideal as I just cannot remember sequences of numbers for more than around 20 seconds (other than the phone number of my childhood home and the zip code of my friends address when she moved to America age 11.  Neither are useful as Mum and Dad changed numbers when they moved around 15 years ago, and my friend only went to the US for two years.  Why on earth would my brain doesn’t remove these numbers from my memory to make way for others, I don’t know).

Apparently I can’t even remember the number long enough to remember to write it down.  So each week I have to go and find a purple tunic person to give me the code and hope nobody interrupts my walk back to the lift as I repeat the sequence over and over…

So I’m not great with remembering numbers, but it turns out that I’m not good at remembering anything at the moment.  I only remembered to sign some of the Christmas cards I sent this year.  The reason I know this is that some people have recognised that anything with a crochet element can often be traced back to me and checked.  Others may be having a Valentine element to their Christmas courtesy of yours truly.

Then yesterday a solicitor (oh the joys of equity release!) contacted me as I’d only sent her half a document.  It was the important half, but apparently these legal people are picky and they wanted the rest.  I was told I’d I sent the first half in October.  I had absolutely no recollection until she sent me a photo.  And then I had no idea where it might be.  I went through all my Mum and Dad folders. Nothing.  I assumed it must be at Dad’s so I called and asked him to look through his folders.  Nothing.  I spent 2.5 hours yesterday afternoon separating every piece of paper in my Mum and Dad folders, my work folders, all of mine and Mr R’s paperwork and his and my desk drawers.  I even moved my desk and checked behind the radiator. Nothing.  Just as I was about to serve dinner I remembered another Mum and Dad folder I have (there is alot).  It’s the original one.  It was the first document in there.  Of course it was.

So while numbers are a known problem, I suspect that my head is currently just too full for any more information.  I shall concentrate on emptying it over Christmas, until only fairy lights remain 🙂

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Cracking on with Tuesdays

Posted on December 5, 2025 by thepogblog

This Tuesday I joined Mum for breakfast as there seemed rather a lot to get done and I’ve discovered it is possible to fit more into the day if you simply get up earlier and crack on.

However, the level of ‘cracking on’ that can happen in a room of people with dementia is a little on the low side, and this was highlighted by a loop of conversation around Mum’s marmalade on toast that went a little like this:

Me: ‘Mum, are you going to eat your toast?’

Mum: ‘I’m waiting for him’ (nodding at the man sitting next to her for no particular reason I could identify)

Me ‘I think he’s done, if you want to start’.

Mum: ‘I can’t’

Purple tunic carer (Mum loves everyone in a purple tunic.  I’m thinking of getting one): ‘Would you like to eat your toast?’

Mum: ‘I am’ (clearly not)

Purple tunic carer: ‘Here, pick it up like this’ (helping mum grasp the toast)

Mum: ‘Oh’

*Purple tunic carer walked away, mum put down the toast*

Me: ‘Mum, are you going to eat your toast?’

Mum: ‘I don’t have things to eat it with.’

Me: ‘You pick it up with your hands like the lady just showed you’

Mum: (looking incredulous) ‘Don’t be so silly; of course you don’t!’

The three of us did the loop for a while before Mum decided she was giving up on the toast and going to her room.  I grabbed her walker and tried to manoeuvre her to hold the handles.  Obviously I’d created a level of mistrust by suggesting using hands to eat toast with and Mum was not keen on following my suggestion.  And then I felt my scarf tightening around my neck… the lady who was sitting with her back to Mum had reached around and taken a shine to it, and presumably wanted a closer look.  I stepped slightly towards her to confirm that no, it wasn’t from Paris; I’d actually made it myself so yes, I was sure of that and to thank her for her interest, as Mum finally decided that the walker handles were for holding and started pushing away.  Just as the other lady started lacing her fingers through the granny squares that made up my scarf…

Not for the first time I felt a little like I was in some weird sitcom as I tried to step in front of the walker with the bottom half of my body to stop Mum wandering off alone, while unwinding the scarf from my neck so I didn’t get strangled, at the same time as gently removing the lady’s fingers from the holes they had wound themselves through. There was not a purple tunic in sight.

Anyway, we managed.  We got to Mum’s room.  Mum decided she didn’t want to be there now, so we went back.  And the toast had gone.  So Mum sat in a comfy seat near the Christmas tree and I left her listening to carols.

I went to Dads and (I am rather proud to say) cooked 22 meals for him, from scratch in three hours. I did have to clean all surfaces – including the windows – before I left, but we’ll gloss over that.  (I already mentioned that on Facebook and Instagram, so sorry for the additional brag here if you follow the blog there 🙂)

So I did manage to crack on for part of the day, anyway 🙂

 

Posted in care home, Cooking, COPD, dementia, family, looking after Mum, memory, stroke, Tuesday | Tagged , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Musical Bingo, anyone?

Posted on November 28, 2025 by thepogblog

Now Mum has moved to the dementia unit at the care home, visiting has become a bit more of a gamble.  There’s a lot more activities for Mum to take part in and the team have no qualms with ‘encouraging’ visitors to get involved…

That is how a few weeks ago I became heavily involved in a game of musical bingo which had just started.  About ten residents were in a loose horse shoe shape in their armchairs, with the staff member front and centre pausing and plying clips on a CD.  I sat next to Mum who clearly had no concept what was going on but seemed to be enjoying herself;  I think the same was probably true of everyone there.  I started humming to a clip and realised it was on Mums bingo card so covered it with a chip for her.  The man to her right was having similar issues so I helped him out too.  And the lady on our left…well she was having a great time stacking counters willy nilly, so I left her to it.  I got a little more involved in the singing, but was totally outdone by the gentleman we’ll call Tommy who was singing each clip…and then as much of the rest of the song as he knew with the gusto of a West End star.

This carried on through the likes of ‘White Cliffs of Dover’, Cliff Richard and The Beatles.  A couple of times Tommy went quiet and I watched him and the ladies either side to realise that they were passing a pink slipper up and down their row.  Indeed, the lady to his left was only wearing one, but hadn’t seemed to realise the one that was being passed back every so often was the one she had lost. Up and down it went between the varying vocal arrangements and the suggestions of what the song could be.  At one point Tommy was passed the slipper, looked at it in surprise like it was the first time he’d seen it, raised each foot individually to check he wasn’t missing it, decided he wasn’t, and stuffed it behind a cushion.

The whole bingo game (38 tracks!) took most of the time I had planned to visit, but I’m not sure I’ve giggled that much visiting Mum before.  I admit I did practically hide the following week when everyone was being taken to a concert with a live singer (I got trapped in one of those Mum’s first week.  It’s an acquired taste…) Sadly, I didn’t visit on Giant Snakes and Ladders Day which looked quite fun:

Side note:  I’m writing this trying to show you the humour, because there is humour.  There has to be.  While people take great pains to tell you ‘what a horrible disease dementia is’ (absolutely) and how it is ‘cruel’ and ‘robs people of who they are’ (couldn’t agree more), I’ve not yet met someone with a relative with dementia who doesn’t laugh at it.  Because if you didn’t, you’d break with the sadness and frustration of it.  So if I sound a bit flippant, trust me; it’s how it’s done.

We weren’t finished there though.  Mum decided that she needed the toilet so I took her to her bathroom, helped her, and let one of the carers know (we found out that if Mum has a poo on your watch and you don’t tell anyone it doesn’t go in her charts and they think she is constipated and medicate for that, which obviously then has it’s own issues the next day).  ‘Lovely, said the carer.  Did you get a look?  Could you give it a number?’ And showed me this:

And once again I was reminded that there are so many things I don’t know that I don’t know.  Yet. 🫣

And on my way home I wondered what will be on musical bingo when my generation are in the homes.  Micheal Jackson, Bad ? Bon Jovi, living on a Prayer? Prince, Gett Off? The Shamen, Ebeneezer Good? Oh my God, it will be so much fun!

🙂

Posted in care home, dementia, family, looking after Mum, memory, stroke, Tuesday | Tagged , , , , | Leave a comment

It was a 5 minute job

Posted on November 14, 2025 by thepogblog

We all have those five minute jobs that grow legs occasionally, don’t we?

I had one yesterday.  All I had to do was call the local log man to request a delivery of logs.  And it turned out he had a delivery near by and could come out to me around 2pm.  And that was great.  I figured would probably only take 20 mins – 40 minutes maximum for me to get them stacked into the storage space under the house, then I could get on with All The Work Things.  Not quite five minutes, but I could make that work.

But as I ate my lunch and thought it through a bit more, I remembered Mr R had said we needed to empty the storage space under the house before we got logs delivered as it was currently full of all the things we’d dumped there over the last year, including a large chair, numerous part filled pots of paint, all our camping suff and some floorboards.  The logs were due to arrive in an hour – I had an hour to sort it.  So Percy and I rushed around the side of the house (one of us very excited that this could mean a bit of ball throwing time) and opened the under house doors.

Only I didn’t, because they were stuck shut.  I tried to use the key as a lever: nothing.  I got a knife from the house to use as a crowbar.  I bent the knife.  I got a second knife and tried to use both together:  Nothing.  I video called Mr R in London to show demonstrate the door issue and ask for suggestions, even though I then shot all suggestions down in flames (because clearly on some level this was at least partly his fault, and by this time I was hot and grumpy).  But I didn’t need Mr R’s suggestions; it turned out I just needed my lovely next door neighbour’s window cleaner who appeared like a giant bearded fairy and asked if he could help.  Obviously he just pulled on the key a tiny bit and the door just popped open (clearly, I’d done all the groundwork required).

I managed to remove / reorganise all the insides sufficiently so that when the log man arrived with the giant back of logs (around 1/4 tonne.  It wasn’t a Tesco bag for life – we’re talking a lot of logs), and we managed the get the wheely thing corrying the giant bag of logs down the drive, I had enough room to carry out my 20-40 minutes job which so far had taken and hour.  I stacked hard and fast and was very proud until I tried to close the door.  Not a chance.  Especially as the window cleaner had finished ages ago.

I think what had happened is that the doors had expanded slightly since they’s had three coats of paint added to then (rather expertly, I might add, by smaller Stepson).  I requested advice from Mr R:

(I’m not allowed to use power tools with cords unsupervised ever since I hedge trimmed through the hedge trimmer power cord.)

I found some sand paper.  I fixed a bit.

I realised the job was way bigger.

Obviously the electric sander had no instructions, so Percy and I examined it, had a think about what you might have to do and…

…well lets just say I might have missed my vocation as a power sander extraordinaire 😁

The power lead is intact.

I am intact.

I sanded nothing I didn’t mean to (mostly)

We now have cupboards that close. And open (without the need of a window cleaner).

And my five minute job only ended up taking 2.5 hours…🤷‍♀️

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Finding Brave

Posted on November 10, 2025 by thepogblog

I think sometimes we all need a bit more brave, don’t we?

My niece struggles to find her brave sometimes, but luckily it was brought to the attention Dave the Brave – the dragon in charge of all or our brave, and he sent her a letter and some extra special brave.

It turns out that Dave is surprisingly good at conversational hypnosis too, so there was actual magic happening when Little Wisps Mum read her out the letter…

I just thought you might like to see it 🙂

This new brave was named by Little Wisp (entirely independently) as ‘Ember’, proving that even when you are just finding your brave and are eight years old, you can have many other creative skills. 😁

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Introducing…Beryl

Posted on November 7, 2025 by thepogblog

Beryl lives up our road.  Beryl is all sorts of amazing.

She walks her dog – at a fair pace –  every day, whatever the weather, sometimes with her friend Derrick and his dog who both live a few doors down, and sometimes alone.  It’s Beryl and Derrick that have convinced Mr R and I that we will always, always have a dog, because they are both all sorts of amazing – Derrick is in his 80’s and today is Beryl’s 95th birthday.

Ninety-five, and not only does this woman walk her dog further than some of the locals half her age manage, but she also plays ball with him, bending down to grab the ball and throw it.  At the end of Beryl’s front path there is a washing up bowl that she fills with fresh water each day for the local puppers to grab a drink on their way past.  A full washing up bowl that she carries from the water butt, up the path and up some steps.  Ninety-five.

And her front garden is beautiful.  It’s also not insubstantial in size.  I always assumed she had a relative or maybe even a gardener to help maintain it, but a couple of months back we were chatting about the weather as we passed each other with the dogs and I asked if she’d been making the most of it in the garden.  ‘Ooh yes, she said; I’ve got a lot of weeding done today out the back.  And hour this morning, a rest over lunch and another hour this afternoon…’  And she confirmed that she does all the gardening, front and back alone, but ‘doesn’t grow as many vegetables as she used to’.

But aside from Beryls amazing agility levels, my favourite thing to know about her is something I learned a few years ago.  Beryl had been in hospital, and was discharged only if someone offered to care for her.  I don’t know her family situation, but it was Derrick that kindly stepped up and had her move into his spare room while she got stronger.  I saw Derrick walking both their dogs part way through this arrangement and asked how things were.  It was clear they were a little fraught (I think ‘bloody awful’ was his actual response 😬) .  Later that day, in an attempt to give them a smile (and because I am a bit of a feeder) I made an apple pie and custard for their Sunday lunch pudding and popped it up, intending to leave it with Derrick.  But Derrick had escaped (or possibly not returned from the dog walk…) and Beryl answered the door and invited me in.  We had a lovely long chat that included asking how long she’d lived in the road (about 60 years) and where she’d lived before.

‘Oooh, a small town in Kent you probably wouldn’t have heard of.’

‘Oooh, I’m from Kent…what was it called?’

And you’ll never guess what.  Beryl grew up in Bumpkinsville.  She worked in shops in the town I grew up in.  And – after a bit of conferring with my Mum (this was before Mum’s stroke) – it turned out that Beryl knew Cousin George.  I have no idea how Cousin George fits in the family tree, but my Mum and her sister were ticked pink that Beryl up my road knew Cousin George down their road, many, may years ago.

And that is my snapshot of Beryl.  I’m hoping I’m still writing this when she is 100 and by then I’ll have learned more of her life.  And had the balls to ask for a proper photo.  But for now, this is her and Derrick on their morning constitutional.

Happy birthday, Beryl!🎈🎈🎈

 

Posted in Bumpkinsville, fitness, gardening, Pog Life, the people you meet | Tagged , , , | Leave a comment

A tale of numbers that made me angry

Posted on November 3, 2025 by thepogblog

Numbers are not my friends. They never have been.

They move around when I try to write them down or remember them, and if there are too many to deal with I swear they pretty much run around in my head, on paper or on the screen.

However, I seem to have swapped washing and dressing Mum for an influx of numbers that I can’t hide from.  Some I’ve got my head around.  Some I get up at 4.30am to write down on pieces of a4 paper to stop them from going round and round my head. And most recently some have made me outright angry.  This is a true story and a tale to remind you that even if numbers are not your friends, it is really important not to ignore them:

Mum was moved a couple of weeks ago from her bed on the nursing unit (the only bed available in July) to the dementia unit.  This was a move down one floor.

A few days before I was emailed and asked to confirm in writing the change to Mum’s fees.

I think most people know that care homes charge a shit load of money.  I don’t know if you’ve watched ‘Riot Women’ (Side note:  If you haven’t and are my sort of age – spitting distance of 50 – or older, male or female, I recommend it.  I’ve never cared about a group of fictional characters as much) – if you have, in pretty much the first scene, the character mentions her mum’s home is £5k a month and her brother goes nuts.  Let me tell you, they are getting a BARGAIN.  So anyway, they charge a shit load but short of packing Mum off to Yorkshire (where Riot Women is set) for the cheaper fees, we don’t have much choice.

So the Care Home business person asked me to confirm I was happy with the change, the day before Mums move, which should have been a fair sized decrease.  Only it was around half the decrease I expected.  I had a think and this is pretty much what happened:

Me: The figure you quote would suggest that the 6.5% increase due in April next year is being applied now.  Please could you advise?

Them:  Ah yes. The increase due in April has already been applied.

Me: Why? It’s October.

Them: It’s what we do.  Anyone who moves in or moves within the home from October pays the April increase early.

Me: Why?  Why would you expect me to agree to pay additional fees for 6 months?  You also haven’t written this down anywhere or told me it would happen.

Them: Oh.  Would you like us to request a price reduction from Head Office?

Me: No, as it’s not a price reduction.  Please request with Head Office that we pay the current fees for the dementia care until April and then increase in line with all other current residents.

<<<12 days and a number of emails to ask where we are later…>>>

Them: Approval has been granted

I can’t help thinking that if I’d responded without thinking, or if I’d run away from the numbers as I’d have preferred, or if I’d simply just trusted that businesses are all reasonable, we’d be paying 6.5% more on top of the shit load of money we already pay for six months that we shouldn’t have.  And I wonder how many people have done exactly that.  And that is what makes me outright angry.

So remember:  even if numbers are not your friends, it is really important not to ignore them.

And here is a photo of a flying Percy as even with numbers around, who can’t be uncheered by a flying cocker spaniel?

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The nose clip Tuesday

Posted on October 31, 2025 by thepogblog

Dear people in my computer,

On the surface, my Tuesdays might look quite same-y.  I negotiate the M23 and M25, experience the joys of Tesco, every four weeks or so I add a trip to pick up a small pharmacy for Dad, and then I spend time with Mum and Dad, mostly in their separate places.  But the ‘spending time’ detail is very varied.

Last week, for example, I managed to cook fifteen meals from scratch for Dad’s freezer while convincing a BT man that removing the copper wire and replacing it with a fibre one was not going to happen unless he could be 100% sure that the cable wouldn’t snag on the trees leaving Dad with no phone, internet or Ring doorbell (the compromise on a panic call alarm), while simultaneously getting a man into the loft who was surveying the house.

I was a little sad that they both arrived to see this chaos:

Rather than the end result which I was rather proud of.  More so when I managed to get it all in Dad’s freezer 😁

So that was last week.  This week we had another hospital appointment; this time for a lung function test.  I was allowed in and it was really interesting.  They needed an oxygenated blood sample (I think), which they can take from an artery or ear lobe.  A needle in your wrist artery isn’t terribly comfortable apparently, so they went for an ear.  I couldn’t work out how they’d draw blood from Dads ear lobes as they are capillaries rather than veins.  But it turned out they had that covered as the man put a cork behind Da’s ear while they cut the lobe with a razor blade a bit reminiscent of Van Gough…. I don’t know if everyones ear lobes bleed that much but Dad ended up needing a dressing and a clamp.

Next they put Dad in a Body Box (yes really) for a series of tests:

It was all relatively normal until Dad was given a nose clip for the tests and discovered that the nose clip gave him exactly the right sort of tone to sing The Muppets theme tune…which he did.  Many times over the next hour and 15 minutes of tests… 😂

Whenever he has a blood test dad request an ‘I’ve been brave’ sticker (and gets one).  The poor man doing the tests who may have been too young to remember the muppets came clean that he didn’t have a sticker, but Dad could keep the nose clip.  So as I wheeled dad out of the hospital, despite the fact he must have been exhausted, he was still de-de-de-de-dah…ing. 😁

And to go back to the Van Gough reference, Little Wisp, my 8 year old nice had drawn this for Nanny last week.  Isn’t it amazing?

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A bit of honesty

Posted on October 23, 2025 by thepogblog

Dear people in my computer,

I think I might have fallen into that social media trap a bit.  You know, the one where you make life look a bit more smiley than it is.  It’s tricky, because nobody wants to read unsmiley or ranty stuff all the time, but there should probably be a balance or I’m not being terribly honest which doesn’t really help anyone.

So, I hold my hands up and admit that I have glossed.   And for today at least, I will not.

Last week when I went to visit Mum, she was really lovely to me – she greeted me with a smile and got out of her chair ready to go somewhere together…until a member of staff corrected her when she called me Sister 2, and told Mum I was actually Pog.  Mum was not happy to discover this (me being her least favourite daughter 90% of the time) and refused to chat very much on our outside escapade, or over our coffee and fruit.

When I left, she wouldn’t look at me, let alone say goodbye (although the Lovely Phylis who sits next to her blew me a kiss, which still makes me smile.) It was a bit tough, but it wasn’t the end of the world.

This week I arrived as Mum was finishing a coffee in the lounge. I asked if she’d like to come with me to put the flowers that I’d bought her in a vase in her room and drop off the toiletries I’d picked up for her at Tesco with Dads shopping.

‘Where are the others?’ she asked, looking around me

‘It’s just me, Mum’

‘It’s not worth the effort of going to my room if it’s just you’ she replied.

I said that was ok, I’d go and pop the things in her room on my own, but that made her cross, so I found her walker and we made slow progress.  We had a small dispute over which direction her room was in, and I think this compounded the grumpiness that I was disappointingly just me.

When we got to her room Mum refused to sit down.

Then she wanted to sit down, but didn’t want to be guided into the chair.  And despite me using my arms and legs and voice to try to help, she did the sitting bit too early and slowly slid to the floor.

I got her back up, sitting in the chair and watched – almost in awe – as she lowered herself to the ground again and started shouting for help.

I got her back up again, helped her hold her walker and suggested we go back to the lounge as this was obviously not working out.

We passed a member of staff and mum smiled brightly and told them she would see them soon.  We passed another resident in their room and she did that happy smile and a wave.

We were part way to the lounge when Mum stopped,  looked at me and told me that she didn’t like me, didn’t want me there, had lots of other people who would come and visit so actually she didn’t even need me.

She then propelled her walker down the hallway, looked at the walker, at me and asked me what I was going to do about that.  As the woman clearly had the strength to get herself from a chair to the floor, do a fair bit of shouting and push away the support I’d thought she needed to walk, I suggested she go and get it.  Which she did (using the wall rails as support…I’m not suggesting there was some sort of miracle here 😬).

And then a member of staff walked towards us and Mum burst into tears and told them I was being so, so horrible to her.  I gave up.  I asked the member of staff to look after her and left.

And that is the reality of how Mum can be.  Not always.  Sometimes she can be lovely, or just a bit tricky.  But sometimes she can be nasty.

She is always absolutely lovely to care staff.  She is always absolutely lovely to friends.  She knows the difference between us and the ones she is always nice to (Sister 1 and 2 have suggested we get tunics like the care staff for when we visit as she might be nicer to us if she doesn’t realise we are her daughters).  And while I think we’d all prefer it was us that got the tough bits, that’s the bit that’s hardest to deal with.

So, top tips for anyone not in this situation right now (and recognising that this is based entirely on my own experience, thoughts and feelings – I’m obviously not an actual expert):

  • Do not tell the family of someone with dementia that it is a terrible disease, and they don’t mean any nastiness; they just can’t help it.  Please see above.
  • Do not tell the family that they are nasty to you because you are ‘safe’ to let out those feelings to as though that makes it ok.
  • Know that the only thing harder than managing this situation is the expectation of others that as it is a disease, it is reasonable to put up with behaviour that in any other circumstance would not be tolerated.
  • Please know that even if ‘it’s not them, it’s the disease’, it is really, really hard to keep going back into that situation, while simultaneously taking a huge amount of time trying to work out the admin and the finances and the medical things to make sure that person is cared for in the best possible way, even while they tell everyone how horrible you are.

And, if you are in a similar situation reading this (and again,  recognising that this is based entirely on my own experience, thoughts and feelings – I’m obviously not an actual expert):

  • I see you.
  • The shit days are shit.
  • Some of the good days contain a fair bit of shit too.
  • It’s ok to walk away.
  • If the person is in their or your home, it is ok to insist (not ask) on more care support to give you more space.
  • If the person is in a care home, it’s ok not to visit for a while (I won’t be).
  • And I’m sorry that you’re having this experience too.

And that is my bit of honesty.  Normal smiles will resume shortly 🙂

Posted in care home, dementia, family, looking after Mum, memory, stroke, Tuesday | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

The kindness of strangers. And the joy of a hedgecutter.

Posted on October 17, 2025 by thepogblog

When was the last time you said something lovely to a total stranger?

Since July I’ve been trying to get Mum and Dad’s much loved garden back under control so Dad has a nice space to look out at.  The garden is bordered by hedges, which are bordered by roads.  I did the insides…but the outsides needed to be attacked.  And I rather like the hedge cutter 😈.  What I am less keen on is the speed that rather large cars and lorries zoom up the road which doesn’t have a pavement . And also ladders.  I get really panicky at the top of ladder height…

So I created a hi vis situation with a spare ladder and cones:

Grabbed dads hedge cutter:

And two weeks ago I did one side:

And this week I did (most) of the end (my arms weren’t quite long enough):

And then the other side:

And while I absolutely wanted to show off my (imperfect) handiwork, and proudly tell you that I didn’t fall of the ladder (quite) and I didn’t get run over – even once.  In fact I only fell over once, and luckily I fell into the basket of leaves that I’d just dropped so I had a soft landing…

…What I really wanted to tell you was this:  Lots and lots of people drove past.  Some were visibly annoyed that they had to slow down on what can be a very fast road (although I did end up on waving terms with the farmer doing repeated trips on his tractor who was also slowing down a fair few people).  And then one lady stopped.  I was worried I was about to get told off for blocking the road, but she leant over the passenger seat while her small dog sitting there snoofed in my direction, and told me what I great job I was doing.  She told me she was a gardener and her husband was moving from decorating to hedge cutting and she thought I’d done really well.  She said she didn’t think she’d have been brave enough to do the reaching at the top of the ladder I’d done on her own.  It almost made my eyes leak.

My Dad is hugely appreciative of what I have done as he did it for many years and knows the effort involved.  It meant such a lot though, that a stranger thought to stop and tell me I’d done well.  It’s like when a stranger tells you they like your boots.  It’s lovely hearing it from a friend or Mr R, but it takes on a bit more when someone thinks enough of your boots or your hedge cutting to stop and tell you.  It creates a different sort of smile inside.

So, I wonder if maybe the next time you notice something positive about a stranger, you’ll tell them and give them that lovely smile inside?  🙂

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