Beardville

Monday market washes up the best on the shores of the Square.

I caught the end having spent the better part of the day with my Ma and the Memory Man at the hospital in Foix.  

The Twingo has developed an orchestra beneath her bonnet.  In 5th gear it produces a vibration at the frequency of 432Hz which, according to Buddhists, is the OM sound of the universe, but when you're on the dual carriage way and driving at 70KM/H with lorries barreling up behind you don't feel too Zen.   In 4th gear there's a reggae band down beneath and at roundabouts, a solo drummer.

My nerves were frazzled before we saw the Doc.  

He diagnosed my Ma with Alzheimer's and told us Bobby should go into a home.

We hummed and drummed our way back home.  Lizzie asked me what her diagnosis was 'cos she couldn't remember and I re-gave her the truth as kindly as possible.

We decided she should listen to Radio 4 and knit. 

Back in town we went to the wool man in the market and bought balls of wool and needles which I took back to #25, squeezed Bobby into a coat which obviously belonged to a smaller person and walked him round to the Naughty Rabbit.  

The next couple of hours are missing because my brain disassociated in order to protect itself from the onslaught of my aunt's pedantic advice on what we should do with my parents.  I had Lizzie opposite me kicking my leg under the table, catching my eye and winking.  

The beards gave a bit of respite.  Dorset Ben and Dublin Ciaran, joined by Tarascon Guillaume and plans for the General Strike in Foix tomorrow.


I'm sitting in the kitchen listening to David Attenborough on Radio 4 (not knitting but blipping) and marvel at his intact neurons.