A Senior Moment

That nice Mr Automatic called me the other evening. It was the first time I'd heard from him since around last February, and it was good to hear his dulcet tones enquiring after my health and temper in this wintry weather. Are your symptoms worse than usual? No. Do you have enough medication to last two weeks? Yes. And so on. I'm not sure quite what happens if you answer 'Yes' and 'No' respectively, mind - a couple of years ago, when Mr Automatic was still experimental and not so well trained, my symptoms really were a lot worse than usual and I was having problems talking at all. After several repetitions of questions with a polite 'I'm sorry, I can't understand you' he finally just gave up, hung up and said he'd call again! I'm sure, though, that the new, better trained Mr Automatic would not behave in such a cavalier fashion but would send round knights in shining armour (or green scrubs) to make sure I was OK.

Anyway, some considerable time later I was mulling over my good fortune in having someone checking up on me so nicely when I realised that I had no recent memory of acquiring any medication. One particular item on which I depend lasts exactly four weeks, and I usually re-order as soon as I start on a new supply, so that I don't have to panic about getting down to Fore Street to collect it until I feel like it. But I was about half way through, and - had I ordered it? There was no new supply on the shelf. I had ordered and collected medication for Ron last week, but where was mine? I had to call the surgery and ask them - had I ordered it and forgotten to collect it? Had I collected it and forgotten to put it on the shelf? No, I hadn't ordered it at all. So now I have, and all will be well.

Mr Automatic, I thank you. On your very first day of operation this winter you have already saved, if not a life, at least considerable discomfort and embarrassment. According to the BBC, Mr Automatic costs the taxpayer £21 per patient per year, and he is worth every penny. Taxpayers, I thank you too.

Windowgazing

Three times in the last four days I have seen an unknown bird hopping happily along my back fence. Like a grey robin, with just a hint of darker edges to the wings and reddish tail. Inspection of several bird books, the RSPB website, Google images etc have convinced me that she is a female Black Redstart, apparently not that unusual round here on migration, although they definitely breed much further north and winter much further south than Cornwall. I've carefully studied pictures of the male of the species in the hope that he too may be passing by my garden, but so far it would seem not. Just the one solitary female, but happy enough to stay a while with me.

Also happily bobbing along the fence the other day was a wren. Back and forth, then running along the horizontal rail, disappearing into the red jasmine, out the other side, back again... This is the first wren I've ever seen in my garden - there are lots in the coombe, but I'm surprised one has ventured three whole rows of houses uphill! That red jasmine would be an ideal place for a wren's nest or three - maybe in the spring...

I've been doing rather more birdgazing out of the kitchen window than usual over the last few days because I caught a cold. Actually Ron and I both started snuffling and sneezing more or less simultaneously last Wednesday evening and have generally gone downhill (and back up again) since then. Ironically enough, we were due for flu jabs on Saturday morning but were deemed too ill to have them, so will have to wait another month for the next flu jab clinic.

This is the first cold I've had for almost two years but of course it developed rapidly into a minor pulmonary crisis. A small salutary reminder of one's mortality every now and then isn't necessarily a bad thing; after a night where there were doubts as to whether the next breath was actually going to happen, a morning of wrens and redstarts, sparrows, starlings, even some sunshine, reinforces the fact that still being alive is, well, quite an achievement really.