Royalist or not, you have to hand it to the Queen for being some tough cookie.
This week, at the tender age of 95, she’s finally taken to using a walking stick. Mind you, some Windsor-watchers reckon the only reason she had it at Westminster Abbey was because of the uneven cobbles outside.
As it happens, I – a whopping 23 years younger than Her Maj – wonder if I’ll ever be stick-free again, having used one since I went splat on the tarmac in my rush to catch the scaffies nearly three months ago. Still going twice a week to Fiona, the GP nurse. Ever more nervous that I might hiter again. Literally the cobble-wobbles. Bit depressed. Thanks-be for the good laugh that eventually beat the blues.
Pals’ health troubles
Healthwise, it’s been a hellish 10 months for folk I know and love. Started with an old friend being diagnosed with breast cancer. The op went well but the chemotherapy has laid her low.
Another dear pal, who waited more than a year for a hip replacement, ower-the-moon when she became one of the first to be operated on by Woodend’s robotic surgeons. What a delight to see her smiling, finally pain-free face. Then, Sod’s Law. A couple of weeks after the op, she was diagnosed with a breast tumour.
My oldest mate is suffering all the symptoms of long Covid, but never had Covid. And my super son-in-law nearly lost the thumb on his right hand in an accident.
Recently the much-loved loon who was married to my late best friend Jenny, was diagnosed with myeloid leukemia, facing months of intensive chemo. I’ve been getting updates about him in phone calls and texts from his second wife down in Perth. The other day, when I happened to mention him to my nurse, it transpired she’s also friends with his wife, who used to work at same surgery. Small world.
Predictive text error brought sunshine into nightmare situation
So, when I next texted to ask how he was, I went to add the coincidence that her friend was dressing my gammie leg. Only, thanks to predictive texting, which canna thole words like gammie, it printed as: “Just to let you know, the lovely nurse Fiona is twice a week treating my Fannie ….” When I saw it I roared. No, I didn’t send it, but I explained the gaff.
Apparently when she told her poor hubby, he could hardly breath for laughing – exactly the sort of daftie stuff that always had us in hysterics when we were young. Fair cheered him up and brought some sunshine into his nightmare situation.
Oh to have the healing power of laughter like that every day of our sometimes so challenging lives. I’m sure oor super-trooper Queen would agree.
So-droll Fiona also saw the Fannie (I don’t know why it was capped!) funny side: “Well, it’s nae that hysterical. I run a Well-Woman Clinic every Friday, so if ye’ve ony problems in that direction …” Oh to have the healing power of laughter like that every day of our sometimes so challenging lives. I’m sure oor super-trooper Queen would agree.
Read more by Moreen Simpson:
- Reporting every incident of harassment and assault towards women is vital
- Things aren’t as bad now as during the dark and cold Three-Day Week
- I hope Elton’s still standing by the time he makes it to Aberdeen