THE TIME OF OUR LIVES

It was a most remarkable time in our lives. Surreal even.

My Man from the Ministry had recently taken early retirement (a euphemism for redundancy) from a once-beloved job which had been much less good to him than he had been to it. Even actually saying these words out loud seemed unreal; It was like a bad dream. He had worked in this government department since he left school, and suddenly what should have been a glowing career had all gone pear-shaped.

A take-over bid by younger people with no sense, proper education nor willingness to work (but lots more pieces of meaningless paper ‘qualifications’) had meant a sudden dearth of openings, and promotions came to a sudden halt. The dawning realisation that he would get no further hit him hard, and the daily humiliations hit him harder, to the point where he did the unthinkable; walked out of work one day never to return. A ‘nervous breakdown’ was the old term for it, as he sank further and further into a deep despair that he could not understand.

Medication and a supportive family eventually rallied him, and now, here we all were at the gates of Buckingham Palace, Spouse and me, and two of our three children; in the quaint old-fashioned way, the invitation to the Queen’s Garden Party was couched in the terms ‘Mr and Mrs.. and unmarried adult children’. This applied to our two younger children – in spite of having partners and kids, they were ‘unmarried’ whereas our more formal elder daughter was not welcome, having not only children but also a legally wed husband. All booted and suited we were, us girls in unaccustomed hats, and the boys looking as smart as we had ever seen the pair of them, queuing amongst some of the great and good of the land to gain admittance to our Dear Queen’s residence, wondering what marvels lay within. The sun shone, the soldiers’ uniforms looked splendid, and the ladies in colourful dresses flitted around us like so many expensive butterflies.

We were near the front of the queue, having made sure to arrive early in the hope of bagging a good seat in the grounds – an important consideration, for recent events had meant that both Spouse and I were limping.

Some weeks earlier, we had gone into London to make the final arrangements for his leaving do, which was to take place at a swish wine bar in St Martins Lane. It was to be quite a large affair; having been in the Ministry for almost 40 years he had made many friends, so we wanted to make sure everything was as perfect as possible.

We walked up from Charing Cross and turned to enter the Bar.

All of a sudden, I felt myself falling. The pavement rose up before me and I smashed full length (not very lengthy actually as I am rather challenged in the height department). My customary huge handbag cushioned me a little, but I later found out I had acquired the imprint of several coins of the realm through its soft leather, making rather interesting tattoo-like bruises on my arm.

A horrified (and embarrassed) Spouse helped me to my feet, and, equally embarrassed and not a little stunned, I refused the offer of an ambulance and scuttled painfully inside the building. I mean, how can you explain to anyone that you have just inexplicably fallen off your feet outside a wine bar BEFORE you went in?

Thus, with my head spinning and my eyes swimming round in my head like demented goldfish (according to Spouse as he recounted the tale at the leaving bash) I tried to look normal, and delicately ate a small lunch whilst discussing the catering with the very helpful manager who, to her credit, kept a straight face and tactfully tried to drag her eyes away from my visibly swelling leg propped up on a chair. She asked no more questions when I told her I was ok (through gritted teeth – as the pain was excruciating). G & T and wine was consumed, dulling the agony a little; money changed hands and we eventually staggered off home, examining the offending pavement as we passed. It was found to be very uneven and we resolved to make a complaint – which of course we never did.

I gave up and consulted my Doctor some days later when my leg had swelled up to what looked like a large inflatable swimming aid, and was all shades of black blue and yellow. He pronounced ‘just soft tissue damage’ and said it would have been better if I had gone to the hospital at the time. Thanks Doc for that statement of the bleeding obvious. My NHS contributions were not in vain.

My main worry was the lovely pair of high heeled strappy sandals which I had bought to wear with my new (thankfully leg-concealingly long) posh frock for the bun fight at the palace. For the week after my ‘trip’ I couldn’t even get my injured foot into it, but as the weeks wore on the swelling receded a little, and my hope of being elegantly shod was re-kindled.

During my recuperation, Spouse received a letter inviting him to have a long-awaited operation the next week. Calculating that, by the time of the Palace party he would be well recovered from what is usually (note that word) a small routine affair, he accepted, not wishing to wait any longer for relief from a common but painful and embarrassing condition.

Sadly, the operation was much more complicated than expected, and what should have been simple day surgery turned into a very painful 3 night stay in hospital, and he was released less than a week before the big event. I magnanimously offered to go without him, but he would have none of it, so here we were in front of the best address in London, soldiers marching, bands playing; both high on painkillers (me and spouse that is, not the military); my feet squeezed agonizingly into the footwear in question and him wearing trousers a little roomier than usual, holding each other up whilst trying to look cool and nonchalant, while son and daughter stood chatting at a short distance, casting the occasional glance our way if we got too close.

As might be expected, the garden party was a wonderful experience; the food was nice and the weather good. We got a table with 4 chairs, though poor Spouse did not avail himself much of his for the aforementioned medical reasons, and I found it useful for resting the offending limb, the pain of which was considerably exacerbated by the pretty – but silly – sandals, a pair of sturdy trainers nestling in my handbag for reassurance.

We arrived home in the early evening, having just grabbed a McDonalds on the way to the station instead of the sit-down meal originally planned, in deference to our respective disabilities.

I thankfully kicked off the offending footwear, put both legs up and drank the night away, hubby doing his best to keep up with me, whilst lying in a more comfortable position on his side, still high on the glamour of the day and hospital issue painkillers. Several hours and many empty glasses and pills later, we staggered off up to bed, to sleep the sleep of the just and the ever-so-slightly inebriated.

As I was turning over in bed, blissfully pain-free, at about 3 a.m., I was startled awake by the landing light going on and my daughter calling : ‘Mum help! There is an animal in my room!’ Was I dreaming? No. She repeated it. ‘There’s an animal in my room’. Well I knew her boyfriend hadn’t stayed over ha ha so it wasn’t that. So I questioned her : ‘ What do you mean? Is it a mouse?’ ‘No not a mouse, but it was furry like a squirrel’. By this time I had concluded it was a dream brought on by too many glasses of the fizzy wine we had shared earlier; but ever the caring Mum I hobbled into her room and looked around. No sign of any uninvited guests. I put her to sleep in her brother’s old room and went back to a comfortable wine-induced slumber.

Daylight dawned and I reached for the pills to soothe the now pounding head and the throbbing of the leg, the ankle thanks to the sandals now swollen to several times the size it was yesterday (but Ha! What did I care! I had seen the Queen, ate her salmon and cucumber sandwiches and lived to tell the tale.) I pondered on whether her Maj was feeling as bad as I was this morning as I drank my much needed tea, and tried to decide whether I had hallucinated the whole animal incident.

So, head a little fuzzy but on the whole the pain of the brow still exceeded by the pain in the leg, I crept into her room to investigate – and - lo and behold – there was a large and rather dusty golden hamster! He was as startled to see me as I was to see him, and ran away I know not where.

Now of course I started worrying about him, and I took the long shot of ringing my next-door neighbour, the mother of two young children, prefacing the conversation with ‘This may seem like a strange question, but…’. And, surprise surprise, they had indeed recently mislaid their lively pet. We rather stupidly discussed whether or not it was the same animal, and decided to take his cage, suitably stocked with all his favourite foods, and leave it overnight in the bedroom (daughter now refusing to enter it until the intruder was safely evicted).

That night, the cage, abounding with such delights as a hamster could only imagine, was duly installed in daughter’s bedroom, and daughter duly settled once again in the spare room. I limped upstairs at about eleven o’clock, and couldn’t resist a little peek into the room now bearing a notice reading :'Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter Here’ (I have very comical and literary minded children).

Hallelujah! There was the hamster, sitting in the food container, cheeks stuffed to bursting with all manner of goodies, and I suspect too pigged out to move. He made no attempt to leave as I snapped the door shut, and ran (well, staggered) off to announce the triumph to the rest of the family, who frankly didn’t seem that interested and just turned over and went back to sleep (except Spouse, as I had, quite by mistake, sat on a newly stitched part of him as I shared the good news).

In a rare moment of sanity I decided that the owner of the prisoner would not be too impressed if a small but amply built person with wild hair, tatty nightie and slippers, dilated pupils and one leg the size of a barrage balloon turned up on her door step at midnight waving a large hamster cage. Indeed, our local constabulary might well have been quite interested in such an apparition. So instead I rang her with the good news, and we agreed to hand over the hostage in the morning.

And so it was, within the next few hours, what passes for normality in this house was restored. No maverick hamsters, everyone back in their own rooms, and all aches and pains gradually receding to a dull throb. ‘One day’ Spouse said, ‘We will look back on this and laugh’.

It took a while to achieve that, as we both hurt too much for a long time after, but when wounds both physical and psychological had healed, we agreed that it was, at the very least, one of the most extraordinary times of our lives.