On Sunday I visited my apartment; big deal? Well, actually yes.
To visit my apartment I need are the following:
- Two kind and patient friends from Funchal, Madeira, Adam and Jane, who are taking an extended weekend on the mainland driving around visiting places and friends;
- Their car;
- My collapsible walking frame;
- A light medium-sized suit-case (for the loot);
- My digital camera;
- Keys of the apartment;
- Remote-control thingy for the garage door;
- Sun glasses and cap;
- And a lot of energy.
What happens is this; in the morning, instead going down on my number one walker, (light, high and almost up to my height – only dwarfish creatures seem to need Zimmer-frames in this region, rather like, I imagine, living a remote Welch valley), I use my number two walker (lower, heavier, sturdier but collapsible). Meanwhile my wheelchair is waiting me at my table. After lunch (rice with roast unspecified pig meat) at about two-ish my friends show up and we’re all ready for the off – they know the routine as well as me – first they push me in reverse out of the door (this Home, for all its spacious amenities inside, is not particularly wheelchair-user-friendly when it comes to exiting – there is a small oh-so-near-but-oh-so-far gap in the lintel), to the strategically-parked car where I hoist myself up onto my feet and, holding on the opened door, swivel my backside onto the front seat while lowering my head to avoid cracking it on the door-jamb, a bit like a duck about to give birth – not a dignified manoeuvre.
Leaving the wheelchair behind, we drive along the sunny road for about five minutes down to the sunlit sea where my flat is situated.
And eventually, after a stressful tussle with the too-high step connecting the floor of the underground garage with the lift door, I step into the hall of my humble abode. Back in my comfort zone. I peer into my kitchen,
then pass through into the living room where I sit resting and looking around appreciatively at all my books; my feelings are bitter-sweet.
Memories come flooding back … I could have been perfectly happy here were it not for illness and affliction; I remember the silence and the fresh sea-air; I remember the pine trees outside the window:
I look at more of my books.
But enough wool gathering, we have work to do stuff to sort out. We pass through the hall again to a small inner-hall off which there is a bathroom (all in black marble tiles!) and two bedrooms; there should three technically but the people I bought the flat from chose one large master bedroom with bathroom – I’m glad they did. This is my bedroom.
The inner-hall is lined with book-shelves and decorated with the piece of faience and bric-a-brac.
This a Quimper St. Anne with Portuguese tiles in the background
And this a Quimper bowl on an early Victorian maple-wood card-table
Here is a closer view of the bowl
And finally here is a plate of Dante.
After two hours the suitcase is bulging, Adam and Jane have chosen two books each and I am all flatted out, I’ve run out of steam but I’m pleased with myself.
(I’m all blogged out too)