is good news.
Grandma Zilla is stable and has started her speech therapy.
In lieu of anything else I’m treating this as a positive thing. I’m realistic enough to know that there will not be huge daily improvements. As long as she keeps making some sort of progress I’ll be happy.
As an aside to this episode, and to provide some light relief I thought I’d recount this tale from the weekend:
I stayed at my mother’s house whilst in the lakes, obviously, and on one trip out to the supermarket I began to question my own health. As I was reversing the car out of the drive I caught a glimpse of something, in the corner of my eye. It appeared to be some strange sort of creature, and I questioned whether my lack of sleep was causing me to see things.
When I got to the end of the road all became apparent. Round the bend there were six sheep stood in the middle of the road; so I hadn’t been seeing things! My mum’s house borders some fields, so I guessed they must have got through a gap in the fence.
As I approached them, they started to canter up the hill, with houses on either side they had no other option really. As we crested the hill, me never imagining myself herding sheep in this fashion, they headed off to a cul-de-sac, whilst I turned off onto a branch road.
I thought I’d do my good deed for the day and drive round to the nearest farm to let them know that some sheep were loose. I figured they could do damage to someone’s garden, or end up getting hit by a less careful driver.
When I pulled into the farm yard and knocked on the door I was greeted by the surliest farmer’s wife imaginable. I couldn’t imagine her offering eggs for sale with a sunny smile.
I explained why I was there, and she merely turned and shouted: “Frank, some bloody sheep have got out again!” before wandering off.
I was unsure what to do further, and was about to leave, when a man appeared, dressed exactly as I would expect a farmer to be attired.
I explained again to him what I’d seen, and then he asked me a question I didn’t expect: “What sort of sheep were they?”
Rather bemused, I said “Er, they had red dots on their coats.” In an attempt to enlighten him further.
He then replied “No, I mean what sort of breed were they?”
My face must have betrayed my lack of comprehension, so he then asked “What sort of faces did they have?”
Now, aside from the fact that I only saw their backsides as they ran ahead of my car , I am still at a loss as to what he expected from me – some sort of e-fit type description? One had a prominent nose and a scar on it’s left cheek?
I told him that I didn’t see their faces and he merely responded with “Well they might not be my bloody sheep! <sighed> I suppose I’d better take a look then” and shut the door in my face.
So much for a word of thanks, my good deed went unacknowledged.
I thought farmers were supposed to be cheery characters?