Here is a message from Ann-Marie:

To all those who may be wondering….. Whatever happened to the Whitakers?
Here’s a summary –

Sarah Sprague kindly informed us that Trish is our first line of
support. A day later I received a beautiful letter from a lovely soul in
the village (who shall remain nameless for legal reasons!) Both of these
happenings made me realise that we have been so engrossed in our own
‘bubble’ that we have hardly seen or spoken to anyone else. Partly, I
realise, this is my fault for not being good at asking for help (it’s so
much easier to give, isn’t it?). Sometimes help can be in the form of a
listening ear, someone to off load on, have a moan and a winge and then
get on with it, feeling lighter and more up-beat because, as they say: a
problem shared is a problem halved. Instead I have wondered around the
house that’s half packed, eating toast at silly-o-clock and writing
TO-DO lists.

Has that helped? Not really. Am I shattered the next day? Absolutely.
But what I do know is this – being patient is not a virtue I possess!

The reason for this torpidity is not that us Whitakers have suddenly
become couch-potatoes (though we do tune in for Repair shop, bake off
and Strictly. Doesn’t everyone?) No, the sense of limbo is created by
the housing market and, more specifically, whether our house will ever
sell before the stamp duty holiday finishes, whether we will be able to
finish packing (having unpacked what we’d previously packed when the
last sale fell through), whether Michael will ever get his hearing back
(unlikely, but being a bloke he’s not bothered about wearing a hearing
aid. At the moment he’s selective, doesn’t seem to hear nurse Cratchett
much!!). He has greatly improved though he can’t see the tiny
incremental steps of recovery, but I do. He isn’t going to bed at
7.30pm, it’s often 9pm, sometimes later. So his fatique is lessening. At
times he shouts because he can’t hear himself. Nurse Cratchett asks him
to turn down the volume button. “What?” he shouts, “I can’t hear you!”
It could be a sketch – The deaf man and the shouty nurse. My mum- in-
law broke one of her hearing aids so I seem to spend my time shouting.

At the weekend we finally moved the hospital equipment out of our
ensuite. That was quite a big move as Michael can be more unsteady on
his feet at night when he needs ‘the little boys room’. I asked him was
he sure he could manage without the support of the hospital devices? he
said he’d be fine. Then fell over the cot! (Youngest granddaughter still
has a nap).

Jeanette left a big bag of apples yesterday. How lovely! Today Michael
decided to make a tarte tatin (that’s always been MY domain). However,
having packed ALL the books, including cookery books, he found a recipe
on Google. The verdict is still out on the unorthodox method he used.
I’m saying nothing. There might be shouting later but nothing to do with
a tart!!

We went for a drive last week, me driving Michael’s car, to blow the
dust out of the engine… “We need milk” says Mr. M, so nurse Cratchitt
pulled over with instructions from Mr.M because there was a trailler
attached to the car, loaded up with a tonne of wood, and somehow Mr. M
thought nurse Cratchett hadn’t noticed. Walking into the tiny village
shop-that-sold-everything I realised I had no money of the folding
variety so waved my card saying: “Can I buy milk with this?” The shop
keeper, adorned in a pinny similar to Merilyn’s one she wore in a sketch
said –

“you’ve got to spend £10.” Arms folded across her chest. So in typical
A-M fashion I made friendly small-talk while throwing allsorts of stuff
I didn’t need into my basket. A packet of kipling apple pies… “You get
another one for a pound” she says. A packet of peanuts… “you get another
one of those too for a pound!” My joy was immense. Especially when she
said, “Nearly there, £8.50” Then added, “D’you want a paper or
magazine?” I dropped a bar of chocolate in the basket. “Not really” I
said, looking around for something else to buy that I didn’t want. For
something to say while I waited for inspiration on the shopping dilemma,
I said, “We’re moving to the area and I want to support local business”.
She asked where we were moving to. I told her. “Oh, the cottages” she
said. “where are you moving from?” I told her Walesby. “I used to live
there” she said, “That’s £8.75… that’ll do. Yes I  grew up in Walesby,
got married in walesby church, lived in Walesby Grange –“

“That’s my house!” I said. We both just stared at each other. It turns
out her parents were the house-keeper and care-taker for the Birketts. I
said we’d heard there was a maid “That’s true” she said, “who married
the gardener”I said, “That’s true too” she said, adding: “We had to use
the back stairs, we weren’t allowed in the other side of the house”. She
talked of the Strawberry Teas and croquet on the lawns, even brought me
out the back to show me a painting by Mrs. Birkett of the back view of
the house. There was no mistaking it was Walesby Grange. Meanwhile, half
an hour later, as I left the shop, Mr. M surged towards me like a mad
troll, shouting:” Did you have to milk the bloody cow?” (Yes, he’s deaf
but also hopping mad). I told him to get in the car quick, keep his
voice down and stop staggering about like a drunken troll because I had
a story to tell him to explain my tardiness.

It’s a small world isn’t it? And at the moment it seems very closed in.
To stay sane I take my two vunerables for a spin in the car  with Mr. M
telling me how to drive. Delightful. We buy a sandwich and have what I
call a “Car Picnic”. Exciting. Then I go on Facebook Market Place, which
I have taught myself to use during Covid. Not bad for a luddite! I’m
selling everything we can’t fit into a small cottage. Most of the house
really. I decided to sell the art and craft stock so went into my studio
for the first time since lockdown. The sink still had dirty paintbrushes
and mugs in from the last art class. I had distanced myself so
completely so I wouldn’t feel the loss. I have to admit there were a few
tears. And that was just the dog! He ran across the floor I’d just
cleaned. Not happy. When Mr. M saw my upset he said, “This is because I
had a stroke so you decided to put the house on the market” The last
thing I want is for him to feel in anyway responsible. I KNOW we are
doing the right thing. It’s just taking a while. A long while. A very,
very lonnnnnng while. So I continue to post items in my “shop” and
people continue to turn up in masks to buy a chair or microwave or
whatever…. I told my mum-in-law: “Don’t stand still, Jean, or I’ll be
posting YOU. e.g “Granny,90 years old, in good condition, own teeth and
hair”. She laughed then shot off quickly. Just incase…

So, we are doing ok, have a lot to be thankful for and, once the oven is
fixed, will enjoy hot food again.

Best wishes to all of you and stay safe.

A-M J