Peri-peri chicken, patatas bravas, roasted Mediterranean veg / cinnamon sponge and ice cream

Yesterday morning I went to take my first lot of painkillers and remembered that I had run out of one of them, and of my antidepressants too. I went to my box of spare meds, and found none there either. (Which will teach me to check the contents of each new delivery and not just assume it has what I ordered.)

A quick check on the website of the online pharmacy I use showed that my order was still sitting, unapproved, which meant today was another day of chasing GPs and pharmacies.

I spent 15 minutes on hold to talk to the prescription clerk at the GP surgery, who was able to approve the prescription and tell me that she could see no reason why it hadn’t been approved when I first asked. No apology was forthcoming, either.

Then I had to call around local pharmacies to find one that had the meds I needed, then arrange a taxi, then travel down to the village to sit in the pharmacy while they tried to find my prescription on the NHS prescription system. All of this was done with mum at my side, as she decided she wanted to go out with me.

By the time we got back, to the sad face of a starving tabby cat who hadn’t been fed in days – no, in years – the morning had disappeared. I spent the afternoon lying on my bed, feet burning, while mum nursed a nasty headache in the living room.

I really do feel for mum: chronic pain is no fun at all. But I also feel for me: neither vague reassurance nor slightly less vague explanation helps mum deal with what is happening to her. Her plaintive “I really hope they can sort this” initially pulls at my heartstrings but, after a couple of hours, simply grates on my already painful nerves.

I also very much hope that last week’s tests provide an answer and a way forward, for both our sakes.

Dinner was one of my favourite collation jobs: all ready-prepared stuff that could be cooked on a baking tray, in a pan, or in the microwave. I left the chilli sauce off the patatas bravas as a quick taste indicated it was way too 🔥 for mum’s liking! I enjoyed it, while mum (as usual) drowned her meal in French dressing.

As she finished her plate of food, mum commented that “the food has been quite nice recently”. That definitely feels like a bit of a backhanded compliment – is my cooking not usually nice? – but it’s a rare bit of appreciation and I’ll take it.

For the all-important sweet part of the meal we had a cinnamon sponge pudding, from Tesco’s ‘American-inspired’ range. I don’t know if it bears any resemblance to anything eaten anywhere in the US (can any US readers comment?), but it’s not something that will be eaten again in this small part of the UK.

The sponge was unpleasantly grainy, as if overly-laden with ground spice, but any cinnamon flavour was drowned out by the caramel sauce (supposedly salted caramel, but I couldn’t detect any salinity). Mum had to wash away the taste with tiramisu and a chocolate ginger biscuit, which is a fine excuse if I ever heard one!

Tomorrow the same 10am to 1pm slot is occupied by a visit from the local carers charity and a phone call from the memory service to review mum’s Alzheimer’s meds. In theory, there’s no reason why the two will occur at the exact same point within those three hours, but I think we all know what will actually happen.

As always, I will let you know.