Being 72 is a bit odd for me.  It seems I am suddenly more attractive.  Who knew?

I am NOT what one might think of as a physically attractive man.  Not really.  But I am not a pig-dog either.  I am not even grossly ugly.  A smidge disfigured, perhaps….if you count fat as disfigurement.  Which I obviously don’t.

I am just an ordinary, potato-faced old man who is still surprised when looking in the mirror.  “Sheesh, I do NOT look like Tom Sellek, after all.  I have to come to grips with that reality…..someday.”

But, usually I just stay away from mirrors and eventually slide into my quasi-Tom Sellek mentality.  In other words, I live in image denial.  OK, image fantasy.  And, of course, the attentions of women (or lack thereof) helps to keep my inner Tom in check.

But, lately, woman are flirting with me.  Now, to be fair, they are not really flirting.  They are just being accepting and friendly.  But that is a huge step up from watching them back away or run screaming from the room.  This is NEW, better, gender relations.

Maybe they think men over 70 are safe…?

I recall being scheduled to give an interview with an applicant for a job.  The interviewee was a young Vietnamese woman (this was back in the 70’s when I was helping refugees) and she was waiting in a small office.  The door was open and so I strode in.  As I crossed the threshold I saw her face adjust from a relaxed repose to one of fear or, at least apprehension.  Might have been revulsion.

I said, “Hi.  I am David Cox.” That did nothing to allay her fears and she pulled back into her chair and began to make herself look small while, at the same time, she let out a distinct whimper.  “It’s OK”, I said stepping closer.  “I am happy to meet you.”  And that was it – she curled up in the fetal position and let out a muted scream.  Like most men, I know female rejection but this was more than the normal, everyday kind of rejection.  I was causing fear and loathing…..merely by existing.  

I briefly considered offering her a hug to console her but realized that might result in charges so I simply turned and went to get my Asian secretary who was all of 90 pounds wearing heavy boots and an overcoat.  S went in and made everything nice.

She came out and said that I could now go in.  She said that it might be best that I leave the door open.  She said it might be best NOT to make direct eye contact.  She said it would definitely be best not to get too close or speak too loud.  “Would it be best if we just talked on the phone or have you pass notes?”

“Oh, hah hah.  You are so funny.  She’s just never seen anyone who looks like you before.  She was terrified.  I said that you were ugly but nice.”

“Thanks.  You are truly a great secretary, ya know that?  Ugly, huh?”

“Well, you know….by Asian standards, for sure.  Yuck!  And, I suppose, even by Gweilo standards, you are no Tom Sellek.”

“Thanks, S.  We are done here.  I am going in to see her now.  No more pep talks for me, OK?”

But all that has changed since hitting 70.  I might be entering my ‘hunk’ era.  I think this because older women are smiling at me and talking ‘extra’.  Well, talking, anyway.  And some are talking way extra.  Some have even touched my arm.  And as all men come to finally realize (way too late), women have to make the ‘first touch’ before anything can happen.

Now, to be fair, none of my new admirers are spokes-models, beauty contestants or even under 55.  Most are showing their mileage but, on the other hand, so am I.  So, for all intents and purposes, this is a new-to-me, peer-to-peer kind of flirting.  I have also noticed that they are all single or at least do not wear wedding rings.   Lonely might be an explanation?

Did I mention all the touching?  Again, to be more accurate, one woman touched my arm because she was losing her balance but, still….touching is touching.  “Did you want to get a room?” 

“Excuse me?”

“Never mind.  But you should know that I am taken.” 

“Taken with what?  Coronavirus?  Delusions?  Running a high fever, dear?”

C’mon!  Cracking jokes is just great flirting!

Anyway, I write this because the last few days have seen a major increase in stranger intimacy, outright affection, and there is real longing in their eyes.  Could be madness, I suppose….

Mind you, such behaviour is exhibited most often when I have just played the caretaker card.  “My wife is just out of the hospital.  Surgery, ya know.  She needs a lot of attention.  I hafta be back home soon, you understand.  Gotta make her lunch.  She can’t walk, ya know.  Poor sweetie. But, that’s OK.  She’ll get better.  Thanks for cutting the cake in half, Donna.”

Deutsche Bank used to be a rather small and conservative German bank.  But it has NOT been that way for some time.  Likely since the 80’s.  When Trump had gone bankrupt a number of (6) times and had been linked to organized crime and other swamp-creatures, no reputable bank in the US would loan him money.  His ‘paper’ empire was headed for the drain.

So…he went to Russia.  Ostensibly he went to promote beauty contests and feel up young women who didn’t mind because he was rich.  But, in the background, in a back room, he made a pact with Putin.  The devil made the introductions.

Here is the plan they hatched: Putin has billions but it was somewhat land-locked.  He wanted his money OUT of his own country.  He also controls the VTB (the Russian Trade Bank, formerly the Vneshtorgbank).  Putin would have the VTB guarantee any loans the Deutsche Bank made to Trump thus eliminating any risk to Deutsche.  And the VTB would infuse Deutsche with all the Russian money they needed to do that.  In this way, Deutsche had no risk.  They were just a transfer agent.  With fees.

Trump now had a source of funds (Deutsche) that were all-too-easy to access and Putin and Russia would have ‘money’ in the West, not to mention ‘hooks’ in Trump. By ‘the Donald’ borrowing from Deutsche, Putin owned Trump.

For appearances, and likely for their own personal reasons, Russian oligarchs also bought units and condos and memberships in Trump properties.  It looked, to the outside world, that Trump was successfully marketing his Trump-branded crap to rich folks, some of whom were Russians.

And no one looked dirty.

But the end result is that Trump is doing what Putin wanted him to do.  Bottom line: Potus is a Putin puppet.

“How do you know?”

Well………….if it walks like the Russian Mafia and quacks like the Russian Mafia……it is likely a Putin-duck.  But that is NOT enough to form a conclusion.  So a swarm of investigative reporters have been all over Deutsche Bank and Trump’s relationship with them.  That relationship, it seems, defies normal banking relationships, defies normal banking procedures, defies normal banking risks and defies normal banking requirements.  In one sorry example of that, one part of Deutsche paid off a loan for Trump that was in default .  The bank that was owed the money from Trump’s default was a different department of Deutsche!  They bought up their own debt!

Go try that at the Imperial Bank of Commerce.

Do I KNOW all this to be true?  Hmmmmm……………Vanity Fair is ferreting out Deutsche Bank stuff and can confirm a lot of it.  Rachel Maddow has exposed some of it as well.  It fits with what has transpired and there is a new book out that pretty much paints that same picture.  It is called Dark Towers.  And – just today – Julian Assange has filled in a few more gaps…….

“Will it ‘come out?” 

I do not know.  But an (ex) Fox reporter has stated that Trump is filling the swamp, NOT draining it…..so maybe the timing is right for the ‘truth will out’ as Shakespeare said.

Sal was, at first, disappointed.  The physio said she couldn’t graduate to using the cane.  And then Alyson-the-physio kindly adjusted the walker’s wheels to the outside of the frame rather than the inside so as to aid Sal’s use of it.  As a consequence of the new wheel placement, Sal can’t use the walker in the just-too-narrow moho.  I naturally offered to turn the wheels back in. “No.  I think that is a good enough reason to ignore the physio and use the cane.”  And so all last night and today, Sal is using the cane.  Walked 100 feet last night and ironed her new cloth at our friend’s place.  Then walked back.  Chalk one up for Sal. (You might as well fill in the chalkboard for Sal.  She just quietly wins.  It’s her style.  I go down kickin’ and screaming.  That’s my style.  Her’s works better).

Mind you, I am not without my own strong points. I am manipulative in the extreme.  Almost charming, they say, if it wasn’t so creepy and annoying.

I was at the store getting the makings for dinner.  Went to the bakery section.  “It’s my wife’s birthday and I was looking for a small cake but these are all way too huge.  Could you cut that one in half?”  “Sorry, love, they don’t like it if I do anything in their section.  I am in bread.  Especially serving their customers.  Even more especially if I cut their things in half.  They have to do it.”  “OK, fine.  So, where are THEY?”  “Well, dear, they all went home.”  “Hmmm….did I mention that my wife JUST had knee replacement surgery and is currently trapped in a small motorhome being cared for only by me?  On her birthday?”

“How big a piece do you want?”

“Thanks.  I appreciate it.  What’s your name?”  “Donna.”   “OK, then I will tell anyone who asks me that Sharon cut the cake.”  “Unh, we don’t have a Sharon working here.”

“Even better.  Then no one can get blamed.”

News from the moho ward, eh?  Scintillating.  Today?  Probably not so exciting.  We are getting on in years and can’t keep up the pace….

It’s Sal’s birthday.  She gets to celebrate it at the physio department up at the hospital this afternoon.  We think they are gonna ‘push her’ to bend and walk and jump and twist.  It’s gonna be brutal.  Happy Birthday, baby!

I managed to get her through her first week post-surgery unscathed and improving but, of course, it was all really done by her and all I did was steppin’ and fetchin’, cookin’ and cleaning.  PURE HELL!!!!

Yesterday, she insisted that ‘we’ go to Fabricland and shop for quilting supplies.  She was barely a week out of bone-sawing surgery and she wanted to quilt!  That was some kind of crazy fun. 

Here we are at a fabric store managed by three old women with two other old women in there shopping.  And so we joined the throng, the excitement, the buying frenzy.  All hair was either grey or an unnatural colour not found anywhere in nature except, perhaps, poisonous amphibians and fungi.

I swear everyone there limped to some extent and two had walking aids (Sal had her walker, another had a cane).  The cloth cutter had two hearing aids.  All were a bit hunched over, all seemed a bit doddering and all were focused intently on bolts of cloth.  And all of us tripped over things in the aisle.

Seems Fabricland uses the aisles to display even more weird stuff, limiting the width of the walking area to such an extent I had to walk ahead of Sal to clear the way. You’d THINK that a store catering to old women more than say, young, hip athletes, would at least allow enough width in the aisles for walkers and canes, wouldn’t you?

So THAT day-at-Fabricland was day 7 (Family Day) – seven days after having been discharged from the hospital.  Today is day eight, the first day of the Physiotherapy era.

And I will continue the saga after this afternoons pain event…………….

(continued)………and it turned out be a ‘nothing-to-see-here’ kinda visit.  The physio checked that Sal could do what she was supposed to do and then she said, “Well, that’s good.  See you Thursday.” 

“Unh, Ms Physio?  If, when Sal attends her next session, and the extent of the physiotherapy is to simply check her progress, then……?”

“Oh, no.  Next time we work her.  Next time she gets on the machines.  But she is at least one week, and more likely two weeks, ahead of where we expected her to be so this visit was just a progress assessment.”

Sal walked the hallway for the physio to see….and she walked almost normally.  “Can I graduate to the cane today?”

“No!  Good God, no.  You are doing very well but you still need the walker for at least another week or two.”

And so we left.  On the way out, we saw Sal’s ward mate come in.  She is 3 years younger than Sal.  The woman could barely move.  She looked ten years older.  After greetings we continued out of the hospital.  Sal walked at least 400 feet going in (I dropped her at the entrance) and 600 feet leaving (200 feet longer to get to the car and parking lot).  “Whew” she said.  “That was a good walk.  Now I need tea.”

Yes, I know.  A blog on Sal walking is sad.  But, you see, that is what old people do now.  “Hey!  First bowel movement in a week!  Holeee!”  “Unh, that’s good to hear, ma’am.  You do know that this is the waiting room for physio, right?”  “Course.  Just wanted to share the good news.  Have a good day!”

I met ‘my’ Baptist minister back in the late 80’s when I was asked to be part of a ‘tribunal’ to divide the estate of a divorcing couple.  They wanted a lawyer, a minister and a layman to ‘do the separating’.  So, we all met.  We all looked at the circumstances and we all went to work on it somewhat separately.  Then we came together and compared notes, our reasoning and we then came up with the settlement.  It was mutually derived and no one took the ‘lead’.  We worked well as a team.  The settlement turned out to be a good one – especially over the long haul.

The minister got called to perform another quasi-judicial process again a few years later and it involved a very strict and heavily religious community in the valley.  They were intent on ostracizing and expelling a family and the family was fighting to stay within the community.  And so the minister asked us to re-group and do it again.  The lawyer declined but the Minister and I went out and ‘heard the case’.  Again, we separated and deliberated on our own and then got back together to compare notes.  And again we agreed on the outcome and so rendered our verdict.  It went well.  All very, very interesting.

I found it particularly fascinating in that second case that the minister went into OLD English law and found parallels in private societies, clubs, teams and the various conditions under which a member might be expelled. I instead, read their (the community’s) constitution and found that it was very reliant on God, the bible and the basic tenets of Christianity.  I read their constitution as an implied contract with the members.  The more religious stuff I read, the more the decision was made clear.  I concluded that the member family needed Christian forgiveness and that it was an implicit promise made by the community in their constitution to provide it.  I argued ‘bible’, the minister argued ‘private club’.

Ironically, the minister was somewhat drawn to the ‘private club’, exclusivity, high social standing and money-set and I am not.  He does not worship the golden calf but he admires it.  I do not.  But the gap is NOT huge.  We got along.

And then he asked me to edit all his monthly newsletters.  I do not know much about the bible, Baptists, churches or congregations but I agreed to help.  As the years wore on, I became more and more involved in the editing to the point that I would just tear up what he wrote and write the whole damn thing again.  Some people write as they speak (me) and others write as they think they are supposed to (him).  Fair enough…ministers can have a codified, professional-jargon-filled style not unlike engineers, doctors, lawyers and sea captains.  They talk their professional talk.  And I get it.  Being boring is not a sin.

But that ain’t me and he asked for me to write and say what I thought…so I started writing more and more irreverently.  I was not in the least sacrilegious, disrespectful or blasphemous but my prose was personal and familiar.  Earthy at times.  Blunt.  Worse, I started to sprinkle the odd Green meme or anti-capitalism theme in what was ostensibly HIS newsletter.  The minister was NOT all that thrilled by that ‘commoner’ approach but he kept his mouth shut because his newsletters were getting better reviews and he even went so far as to consolidate them all in a book.

But then he wrote something I strongly objected to and I reamed him a new ordination.

We split up.

I was OK with that.

I guessed he was, too.

And the years went on.

Last month he wrote and asked for another newsletter edit.  I gave it.  This month he wrote and asked again.  This months topic is forgiveness.   And that is not a coincidence.  Funny how things come full circle sometimes, don’t you think?

I am back.  I was TRYING to get back to writing regularly a few blogs back but clearly I have now made it.  I am back and typing almost every day!  Woohoo, look at me go…..

But back with what?  Car trouble, city madness and living in a moho with an invalid is hardly compelling reading…..I should do better.  But, with what?  Hmmm……in the absence of anything better, why not try worse?  I am tempted to go all ‘Seinfeld’ on ya and write about things so ordinary, you are fascinated at the mundanity, things so banal, you wonder about my sanity, things so boring, you can use my blogs to put you to sleep.

How’m I doin’ so far..?

So, let’s do updates for a bit:  Sal is doing good.  Very good. She even wants to go to the fabric store and limp and stumble around until she is in outrageous pain.  That has to be the 51st shade of grey, don’t you think?  If you don’t think that, you are wrong.  Her object is to find the perfect shade of grey for her next quilt.

I ‘bought a haircut’ yesterday and that is kinda news as Sal has cut my hair for the last fifteen years (save for a few times a sadist in Hong Kong cut my hair but Sal is my go-to sheep shearer mostly because I do not have far to go-to).  This time I went to a chain-clip-joint.  “What is your name and phone number?”

“You don’t need that.  I am just here for a haircut.”

“The computer will not let me in without a name.”

“Use yours.”

“Huh?”

“Well, I am not in your computer ’cause I have never been here before, so you do NOT have to find me or my account.  I will also never likely come back because my wife usually cuts my hair and….well, I am disinclined to be put on your database.”

“Huh?”

“Never mind.  David Cox.”

“Can you spell that please?”

“C – O – X”.

“Sorry.  One more time……”

She tried again.  Then she turned to an older lady and said, “The computer won’t let me in.  Is it because he only has one name?”

“That’s right.  He needs two names!”

“Cox Cox.  Go ahead.  Try Cox Cox.”

“Umh…could you spell it please?  And, your phone number?”

“Oh my god!  I live remote.  No phone.  We use pigeons to deliver messages out there.  Sometimes our dogs. ”

“Really?  That’s amazing.  But the computer needs a phone number.”

I slowly bang my forehead on the counter.  She smiles.  I slowly and clearly give my phone number.

“Unh…..could you say that number again, please?”

“Geez, Ronnie (that was her name), I am NOT going to have this conversation with you anymore.  If you need more information to give me a haircut, then use your own address, phone number and blood type.  I am done talkin’ here.”

“Unh, why would we need your blood type?”

To her credit, she continues to fill in the form and I am hoping she just used her own info rather than making ‘notes’ on my file.  More than likely, I am being classified as troublesome.   Which actually appeals to me in a weird shades-of-some-colour-kinda way.

“How would you like me to style your hair today?”

“Ronnie.  Oh, Ronnie.  Look at me.  I have a crew cut, a brush-cut.  My hair is uniformly 3/8″ long.  If you can style it, knock your self out.  But, if the challenge is too daunting for you, please just find your 3/8″ clipper attachment and simply buzz me all over.  And, when I say ‘all over’, I mean all over MY HEAD only!”

“Huh?”

“Just a buzz-cut, please.”

In case you missed it due to sudden onset drowsiness, the above haircut episode is a nano-example of city madness.  I may be boring but at least I wrap it up at the end.

Some dorks vandalize Tesla charging stations and even privately owned Tesla cars.  Some deplorables even resort to coal-rolling (smoking) them if they have a diesel truck.  It is the Luddite response to ‘better technology’.  And it is pretty weird.

Why does Bubba hate Elon?  If virtually any ol’ electric vehicle can out accelerate a high performance Corvette, isn’t the writing on the wall getting even bigger and with better lighting? C’mon, Bubba!  What the hell is your problem?  

Maybe Bubba is just jealous and confused.  Or just plain stupid.  Maybe Bubba still owes 71 months of payments on his F-150.  And maybe Bubba just lost his job in the mines.  Poor Dodo.

Already enough ‘clean energy’ electricity generation has been created just in the US that some 700+ coal mines have closed since 2008 and they are continuing to shut down with a record 50+ closures in 2018.  Trump may ‘Dig Coal’ but he hasn’t stopped them from shutting down coal mines.  There are now just 671 working mines where, in 2008, there were 1400+.  The writing on the wall is clear – caveat: but only IF you can read, eh, Bubba?

Solar panel technology just announced a major improvement breakthrough.  They now figure they can improve output from those massive commercial arrays by 2%.  To make their point they said, ‘that 2% improvement is the energy equivalent of all the coal mined annually in the US’. 

I cannot do the math in my head (especially not knowing the exact BTU potential from each of 671 mines) but, if 2% improvement in existing commercial solar panel power is the equivalent of a years coal production from 671 mines, isn’t the writing on the wall overwhelming?

If the world is already suffering a glut of oil production because the ‘market’ is just not there (and part of that market is gone for good with e-vehicles), isn’t the message impossible to ignore even for Bubba and/or his tutor?

If Germany produces 27% of their energy needs from renewable power and the world (averages) 24% but the ‘most advanced nation in the world’ (ha!) being the US and it only generates 11%, isn’t that a condemnation of sorts?  Just to be fair to the US (not easy) it has ‘roll-back’ Trump currently at the helm and really cheap oil from Canada (we supply 48% of their oil and yet pay twice their price for a gallon of gasoline).

There are over a dozen countries around the world doing so much better than North American countries.  Sweden intends to be 100% petro free by 2040. THAT is leadership!

But the list of ‘leader countries’ below is deceptive.  It has the US and China on it because of how much new renewables are coming on line but the list does not balance off increased petro-use in those countries.  They are both becoming larger energy consumers.  China is a huge renewables leader but, because their population has discovered middle class consumerism, their appliances and automobile growth is faster.  It also includes Iceland because Iceland heats with natural, geo-thermal systems so …..not really new, is it?  Canada is not there despite 65% of our energy use coming from renewables (Hydro and Nuclear).  It is generally conceded that the best countries on some unfathomable metric are:

Iceland, Sweden, Costa Rica, Nicaragua, United Kingdom, Germany, Uruguay

Denmark, Morocco, USA, Kenya.

So?  The point?  The world is getting on the bandwagon.  THEY are responding if not to the threat of climate change, then to the increasing preferences of the market place.  People in Sweden, Norway and Denmark are demanding it.  Their governments are responding.  Those folks are well educated.  So is their government.

But we aren’t.  And our governments aren’t.  ‘Mericans aren’t and their government is actively retarding any such progress.  Trump’s base of ignorant deplorables even vandalizes Teslas and coal-rolls them.  We have Doug Ford, Jason Kenney and the usual out-to-lunch bunch preaching petro-Luddism but worse, we have self-crowned environmentalists like Trudeau pushing BIG oil, too!  Our folks are NOT well educated.

Is it we who are to blame?  I mean;  Danes and Swedes demand clean air and get clean air.  Germans demanded clean electricity and GOT clean electricity.  We are NOT getting….is it because we are NOT demanding?

Maybe a better ‘on-the-ground’, what-can-I-do question is: what is the greenie equivalent to vandalizing and coal-rolling?  Do I hafta throw broccoli heads at Bubbas?  Is that what it is gonna take?

When Justin Trudeau first got elected, I wrote to him.  I don’t know him but I had connections.  He got the letter.

The letter was polite.  I did not call him names or criticize him because that would be counter-productive and, anyway, he had just gotten in and I was just ecstatic that Harper had been turfed.  I got a response.

I wrote something along the lines of the following only more formal and polite:  “Justin, I have no idea what your party platform is (the Liberals always have a spongy platform on a gelatinous base and they are flexible and opportunistic at all times.  The official platform means nothing) but I am gonna advise you on one critical issue.  Pipelines.  Especially Trans Mountain.  Parliamentarians think the world revolves around Toronto and Ottawa.  Your perspective is wrong.  The truth is that the world revolves around the natural environment and, in BC, that environment is extra loved.  British Columbians on the coast, in particular, will not accept seven massive oil tankers full of sludge every day plying the Gulf of Georgia.

“I know that you claim to be an environmentalist but you are also a politician with a nasty oil-province bastard in the family.  So, it will be hard.  But nothing will tax your leadership like pipeline issues.  Tread carefully and get creative.  Diluted bitumen will not be well received here.  Consider building a refinery in Alberta.  Consider going east with a different pipeline.  Consider going anywhere but do NOT use the Gulf of Georgia.  That will be your undoing.”

Of course, we know where that warning went eventually.  It went the way of almost all letters to government these days.  Round file.  But I had to write.  I had to do what I can.  And that one was so obvious.  I have written several letters over the past few years and it has only been lately that I am now convinced they are no longer read.  I used to get nice form letters back from some flunky but now I get nothing.

Which is too bad.  It seems hearing from the citizenry is not appreciated by government now – if it ever was.  But, even if ignored in the minds of the decision makers, the writer usually received some acknowledgement of their efforts.  Not anymore, it seems.  These guys are more unaccountable and unresponsive than ever.

They seem to think:  “To hell with ’em.  Let ’em eat cake or watch hockey or something…” 

The irony, of course, is that a failing environment sinks all boats.  To pollute, poison, savage and ravage and harvest all the trees, to rape the oceans and leave them unproductive, to continue to add carcinogens to our lives is really quite bad for even the oil business.  Who they gonna sell to if everyone is on chemo?  Why that doesn’t register with them is beyond me.

But that is the way it is in 2020.

For the record, I write to the Provincial Legislature, too.  Horgan.  Weaver.  I even write to Socred/Liberals, as well.  But no one writes back.  No one acknowledges anything.  Occasionally some hack Assistant Deputy Minister will grudgingly cut and paste a few form-letter paragraphs that miss the entire point I was raising.  But, generally speaking, they don’t care.   I confess that, when faced with a glacier of indifference, I eventually feel like giving up but well, it is not easy to stop writing.  So, I keep it up.

Futility, they name is Dave.

I wrote all that above so I could tell you about a recent exception.  Provincial Ministry of Transportation wrote back to explain to me what I already knew and had told them in my letter to them.  It’s about roads.  But this one is a classic in stupid responses: In the letter from Ms Cousens, she states, “If you are faced with downed trees on the old logging road, call the Mainroad Contracting helpline.  I know that road and have traveled it.  I also know there is no cell service on that road or even half that island.  So call them as soon as you get out.”

“Uh, Ms Cousens, if you know there is no cell service and you also know that people can NOT get out on the logging road due to fallen trees, how are they to ‘get out and make a call’?  Unless, like me, they actually take a chainsaw with them and take the trees away?

“And then, Ms Cousens, this may be hard to grasp from your office in Victoria, but why would I call Mainroad to remove trees I have already removed?”

I dunno…is it better to get no letters in response?  Is that worse than stupid letters in response?  Has the world gone entirely mad?  In every respect?

And, really, how much do we pay Ms Cousens for sitting in an office and coming up with that crap?

Yes, you are right, convalescing in Campbell River makes for disgruntlement.  Disgruntlement, for me, means taking it out on stupid bureaucrats.  At least they are not an endangered species.  Too bad. They should be.

Valentine’s day is imminent.  And Sal and I have been together for 50 years.  I really should be traditionally romantic at least ONCE in my life, don’t you think?  But there’s a problem with that…I am generally a very romantic fella and I ‘lay it on kinda thick’ most of the time.  Every day, actually.  I am a romantic.  Like an Italian – obnoxiously so.

To be honest, I am kinda sickening about it if viewed from a bird’s eye (read: normal person’s) perspective – but I don’t view it from up there (laws of physics and aging limit my air-time these days).  Sal sometimes rolls her eyes.  And she has groaned.  I know it is all a BIT much at times, but a romantic has to do what a romantic has to do.  And I call her the ‘ol’ Puddin’, too (but that is mainly because I think ‘ol’ Puddin’ is really stupid-funny and I have been saying that for years for my own amusement.  I started calling her that when she was just 17.  OK, I have an odd sense of humour….. 

‘Sweetie-pie’ and such is not just an endearment, it has become Sally’s daily-use name.  ‘Course, ‘Sweetie-pie’ is interchangeable as to the sexes and Sal uses that for me, too.  Worse, we use ‘Sweetie-pie’ for my son and daughter quite a bit as well.  Daughter is OK with it but my son (especially when he was in high school) admonished me for using the term too loosely around his friends.  So, I compromised.  He became the much more masculine, ‘Sweetie’.  NO pie.

But, like most compromises, no one was very happy about it (except his friends).  I went back to Sweetie-pie.  He is now 37.  I am gonna hafta change.  Fortunately, I have grandchildren on whom I will burden such a cursed moniker.  It will help toughen them up.

But back to Val’s day……one cannot get too romantic with a women whose leg just went through major surgery so I am gonna have to get creative.  Hmmmm….we DO have a lot of pain-killers at the moment……

The easiest route to Sally’s heart, of course, is Roger’s Chocolates.  I have mended many wounds and bruised hearts over the past five decades with chocolate and Roger’s is by far the best over-the-counter remedy.  Flowers work but, you know how it is….we live in the forest and nature’s beauty is omnipresent for us.  Still, they can’t hurt.

But I need to stretch, think outside the usual charm offensive (charm: which I understand is now a smidge offensive to anyone belonging to the Me Too movement).  Dinner out is out.  Sal’s leg won’t allow for that quite yet.  A handful of diamonds is out….perhaps it shouldn’t be but it is at least out of reach right now.

We could just settle for bubbly, flowers and chocolate and some minor billing and cooing but, somehow, methinks that is NOT going to be sufficient to get her in the right mood.  And, what would we do if it did change her mood to something worse (repercussions of the Me Too)?  There is nothing quite as romantically off-putting as a tangly-haired woman grimacing in pain and telling me what to do – ‘get me a pillow and, damn it, do it quickly!’

That is NOT the kind of pillow-talk I am aiming for.

Hmmmm…..they say that absence makes the heart grow fonder…….

I am NOT talking about Sal.  That gal is charging along!  She ain’t sprinting yet but she gets up, looks at her walker as if to dismiss it…and I have to say, “Use the walker, Sweetie.  You are only at day 5 and you are practically moving well enough for Cirque du Soleil tryouts already.  Please do not push it.”  “I won’t”, she says.  And then she walks the five feet to get her walker.

This is day five after the operation but only day three of being on J&J’s  front lawn.  The entry to the moho is over 100 feet from the entry to the bathroom.  She has been down that path many times already.  I am guessing that she has walked close to 1000 feet from having been discharged.  To me, that is amazingly fast recovery time.  Admittedly, her endurance is limited.  After each trek, she kinda collapses but only for ten or 15 minutes.  C’mon!  That’s pretty damn good.

I can’t really say that I AM the invalid……because, I am not.  But I am a bit constrained by my space.  I am a 2XL in a 1XL space, if you get my meaning.  The kitchen has precisely 2 square feet of counter space and so my culinary efforts are very, very limited.  Take Out Chinese last night.  Friend’s Thai curry ‘take-out’ the night before.  But I can make her coffee and a bowl of cereal so, in that sense, I am a great husband.

Well, good enough, it seems.  She’s still smiling and in very good spirits.

Unless the scheduled physio (starting next week) knocks her down, I am thinking she will be quicker than the 6 weeks they estimated.  I am gonna dissuade accelerating the healing process but, to be frank, she is already accelerating it naturally.

“So, Sal…..maybe we should talk about the ravine and the plumbing pick-up?”

“Ok, Ok….I’ll slow down.  I will.  I promise.” 

Our routine is pretty sad, really.  We wake up late (9:00).  Say nice morning things to each other.  Then I make her coffee and me, tea.  We look at emails (very important to email us as it is the only real entertainment we have) and then we trek to the bathrooms for ablutions.  By the time we have done that, the clock does not seem to have moved….it’s like we are caught in a ‘rip or tear’ in the time-space-front lawn continuum. The day ssslllllooowwwwwsssssss.  But Sal has to do exercises a few times a day and I get to be the ‘personal trainer.’  “Push, Sal.  Push.  That’s right.  Lift Sal.  C’mon, try harder.  Lift!  Now stretch, Sal, stretch.  Can you wash those dishes now?”

Oh, I am only kidding, you guys.  I wash the dishes.  Of course I wash the dishes!  That should NOT have to be said out loud but I tend to paint myself as a dickhead and that is what a dickhead would do.  I may NOT be a total dickhead but I certainly know how it is done.  And I COULD relapse into dick-headism at any moment.

And THAT is why I said ‘a day in the life of a dic…..ooops……invalid’.