Before we go any further - ANDY MURRAY WON WIMBLEDON AGAIN! Cartwheels, congratulations, champagne, whisky, rousing choruses of Scottish songs. Like every other 'Mc' in the country, I am proclaiming my Scottish ancestry. Moving on...
Tony recently had an operation to replace his left knee joint. Try explaining that to Much the Gnome. 'I've been sat on my snail outside in all weathers for more years that I can rightly remember, and there's nowt the matter with my knees', he said. Much, I told him, if Tony had spent a decade or so perched on a stone snail I'm sure he wouldn't have arthritis, but as it is...
The operation was two weeks ago and he is now pootling about the house on just one crutch and having a little wander up and down the street now and again. We are adjusting to the fact that he can't yet drive, hoover, take the bins out or load and reload the dishwasher. (I really miss that bit.) There are still some things that he needs my help with, most importantly -
THE SOCKS
I think socks are rather sweet, often sweeter than the feet they look after. They are snuggly little foot mittens to keep your toes cosy. But not these socks. These are those tight surgical things that Tony has to wear for weeks after the operation so he doesn't get a thrombosis, or maybe it's to stop his legs dropping off, I'm not sure. Because of the angle of movement required to put them on he can't yet do this for himself. However sweetly I sleep, I wake to a nightmare. On with the socks. They are snug. They are meant to be. Never mind DVT, I'm pleasantly surprised that they haven't cut off his circulation.
First thing in the morning I seize a sock and grapple with it. Roll it up and give it a good stretching out sideways, then with teeth-gritting effort force it over the heel. It gets easier after that, especially as the socks have now been through the wash a few times and are losing the will to resist, but really, the first couple of times I did THE SOCKS it took me ten minutes a leg and I broke sweat.
For those of you who like me to blog about Mistmantle, I'm afraid they have very little understanding of socks because paws don't generally need them, but Mother Huggen puts little soft scratch mitts over the babies' paws. She sews them herself. And arthritis is very rare on the island. Tennis, now, that's something they understand.
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People will tell you a lot of things about marriage. Some stories are romantic and dreamy, others more realistic, even nightmarish. Margi and I have often affirmed that we are a Team. We're a Great team: we've tackled Stuff, done Things, fought Battles, and done it together. But the crowning accolade (up to the moment!) is The Battle of The Socks. I can't do it on my own, but Margi is there, rolls up her sleeves, and the threat of thrombosis waves a white flag and surrenders to the imprisonment of the Socks. Victory is ours! Hardly surprising: this the the Lady of the Stories who knew how the Ravens would be defeated in the Raven War - what chance do socks have in the face of such battle-hardened determination?
This Hairy Bloke knows his Lovely Lady, and how she can be strong and gentle at just the right moments. The socks are white, like any surrender flag. And one of these days I'll wear ordinary socks again. And Margi won't have to brave the Feet. But that's another story...
Tomorrow's socks are lined up on the airer. I have had a word with them.
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