Roast lamb, roast chantenay carrots, roast potatoes; berry flapjack and ice cream

This morning, mum headed off to church, leaving me with the time and space to do whatever I wanted, which was mostly to read my book without interruption. Today’s church service was the monthly one which finishes with a communal lunch: evety time mum says she’s only going to show her face, and won’t go even for that unless I promise that someone will bring her home early. And every time I get a phone call at around 12.30 to say she’s decided to stay for lunch, if I don’t mind, and I say I don’t mind, go and make myself a sandwich, and go back to my book

Then in the afternoon mum decided to mow the lawn at the back of the house: she took the mower out through the conservatory then, realising she had forgotten something, knocked on the door that goes from my room to the garden, and asked me to go and get it from the conservatory. I got my crutches, hobbled out to the conservatory to fetch the item, then went out of the conservatory door to give it to mum, only then realising that I had gone round in a rather pointless circle.

Mum then realised she had forgotten something else and went back into the conservatory, making my circular journey even more pointless. I suppose the exercise did me good, anyway.

Dinner was slow-cooked lamb – ready prepared from Tesco and just needing heating through – roast potatoes, and mini carrots which refused to cook through and had to be finished in the microwave. Mum enjoyed it and cleared her plate. I enjoyed mine even when the contents of my plate tried to clear me: I stuck my fork in one of the roast potatoes and it ‘sploded, showering my face and t-shirt with bits of hot potato. I of course got my revenge the natural way, by eating the offending potato.

Dessert was my favourite “want a homemade pudding, but don’t want to make a pudding” pudding, flapjack and frozen berry pudding, and we only had that because mum looked so disappointed when I said I didn’t think I had the energy to make a hot pudding. When she finished her portion with a quiet, contented “yum”, it was worth the effort.

And so to the end of another day, and I just hope I don’t wake up at 1.16am for the third morning in a row to sit for 20 minutes playing games on my phone waiting for the morphine to kick in enough for me to sleep. If you see me posting on Facebook at stupid o’clock tomorrow, you’ll know that my hopes were misplaced.