When Polly Gets Flu

Polly has had flu. Now whether this was the infamous Swine flu or your common or garden flu flu we are not sure. In fact no one is sure, not the NHS helpline, our doctor or indeed, the several other people who have suffered similarly.

Now I love Polly. She is wonderful in so many ways I do not have time to list them all. She (and by extrapolation the children) is absolutely the best thing ever to have happened to me. She is kind, clever, caring and funny. But she is rubbish at being sick. Firstly she believes she is completely indispensable to the running of the universe and that the whole of creation will fall apart if she takes any time off. If she is enforced to go to bed for a while she gets annoyed if the world manages to continue orbiting the sun without her personal assistance and guidance. If, however, the universe somehow manages to struggle on without her, she gets incredibly annoyed if it doesn't tidy the living room in exactly the way she would have done.

Polly has to feel really ill before she relinquishes control of the cosmos. On this occasion she was ill enough to go to bed during the day which is something she begrudges deeply because she 'should be doing other things'. 'Doing other things' means doing all the things that mummies do, children's entertainers do, clown doctors do and rulers of the universe do.

Polly being ill is nothing compared to Polly feeling a little bit better. Polly very reluctantly cancelled a gig at the Royal Marsden but only because flu, cancer, chemotherapy and sick children are a volatile combination. However, Polly feeling a little bit better essentially means Polly catching up with all the things she feels she hasn't done as well as continuing to do all the things she would normally be doing and perhaps a few other things in case anyone suspects her of idleness. Lesser mortals, such as myself, are left wallowing in her wake as she bakes cakes for cub fund-raisers, manages my sisters house restoration, entertains at 4 year-old boys parties, makes Christmas cards and oversees the middle-east peace process. Suddenly she will complain of being tired and look at me as if it is entirely my fault.

At night, my usually delightful bedtime companion becomes an irritable, tetchy, scratchy sleepless nightmare. I cannot move, breathe or mumble sweet nothings without bringing about the kind of reaction that is usually a precursor to all out war. Every creek, every variation in light, every child's nightmare, is my fault. Will no one let her sleep? Don't I realise that she is sick?

The problem for Polly, and no doubt mothers everywhere, is that just because she is ill does not mean that life stops to compensate and allow her time to catch up. I do my best to help make things run smoothly but honestly, is it too much to ask that we don't run out of proper coffee? I've had to drink instant. Yes, when Polly is sick we all suffer. Thank God it's only woman flu.

Until next time.

A Long Dark Midnight Snack Of The Soul

On Saturday Paul and Darren (also known as Rock God and Bass Bin) pulled the hay from their hair and smartened themselves up to make the trip east to the big city and to visit me. As ever I feigned delight at seeing them and we soon fell into a decades old pattern of abuse and nostalgia. Having known each other since infancy we have a lot of nostalgia between us.

Paul, when not playing deafeningly loud rock music in dozens of west country pubs and music venues, works as an administrator in the beloved NHS where he is a highly valued, well motivated and appreciated member of a dedicated team. Or as he puts it - “Just because you're essential doesn't mean you're important.”

Darren runs his own company called Project Link where he oversees the building of refrigeration storage unit type thingies. In a very real sense he is a fridge magnate.

It was great to see them both again, even if it meant I missed a fireworks party round at Catherine and Stewart's home. But as Cath told me at the school gate when I was rounding up the boys from their educational duties, I can see them any time. I then realised I hadn't seen them in ages, what with chest infections, bad backs, and sheer bone-idleness. Then I felt guilty.

I'm was feeling exceedingly emotionally frail yesterday due the mother of bad nights I had had. Usually I fall asleep quite easily and when I don't I have certain mental processes that normally are effective. Failing those, I just read some more. No problem. That night nothing worked. I don't normally get stressed about the odd night of insomnia; after all, it's not as if I have anything too critical to do the next day. But as the night dragged on and on I began to feel trapped. All I wanted to do was get up, wander about for a few minutes, and perhaps make myself a drink. Of course I couldn't. Getting up for a few minutes would take about fifteen minutes and then another ten or so to get back in to bed. Not to mention the time it would take for the ambulance to arrive if I tried to make a hot drink. The trouble was I can remember being able to do those things. I can remember making my own hot drinks and carrying them safely to a table. I can remember just getting out of bed because I had forgotten something. My brain, on Sunday night, kept telling my body to just get on with it and my body just laughed. I became increasingly aware of all the things I can't physically do any more, which at 3 in the morning is a very dark place to be, both literally and figuratively. (Well not literally actually. Our bedroom is anything but dark, what with the little green light from the ceiling hoist, the orange battery charger light, the red bedside clock, the varying green light on the ventilator, the hoist power supply light and, of course, the ubiquitous sodium orange glow of urban living that leaks through the curtains. Sometimes I think we should relocate the room to Blackpool.)

I am perfectly aware that it was sleep deprivation that was behind my long dark midnight snack of the soul. Once the thought was in my head I couldn't switch it off. I lay there feeling trapped. Of course, it wasn't sufficient for me to suffer alone. My occasional gentle shuffling eventually woke the light of my life who was full of sympathy (the first few times). Apparently me turning a small light on to read by in the middle of the night occasionally can be a little bit annoying. (Who knew?)

I survived, of course, although, for some reason, Polly was a little bit tetchy the next day. I'm not naturally given to navel-gazing self pity (unless I'm writing this blog) so I found the experience a bit disconcerting. Even worse, Polly, who habitually reads this over my shoulder while I write, in case I malign her in any way, became all upset when she read I felt trapped. “What do you mean, trapped?” she demanded. “Trapped in a loveless marriage?” “What? No!” I answered, genuinely confused. “Oh, that's okay then,” she said, somewhat mollified. “I was just checking.” Then she added, “You need to get some fresh air.” Which is why I ended picking up the boys from school, meeting Cath, and feeling guilty of friendship neglect. Who says life has no symmetry.

End of ramble. Until next time.

The Honeymoon Story (Part Three)

At last, the final part of the honeymoon story in which we find out why I have of a fear of Lakeland Plastics.

If you haven't read parts one and two then you might like to click here and here to catch up on this tale of lakes, love and the emergency services. I'm not sure why it has taken me so long to write part three, perhaps it is because I'm still living with the consequences, or may be I just forgot. Grit your teeth (l really mean that), and let's go.

Have you ever heard of Lakeland Plastics? Nowadays it's just called Lakeland and sells kitchenware and useful type stuff for the home. 15 years ago it was primarily a catalogue based company with very few retail outlets, the biggest being the factory outlet at Windermere in the Lake District, the company's head quarters. Polly, as soon as she learned of our honeymoon destination, determined to visit this homeware Mecca. If I remember correctly she particularly wanted a muffin baking tray, but more eagerly she wanted to gaze upon the many kinds of plastic based storage solutions the company had to offer. We were, after all, just setting up home. So, after visiting the home of Wordsworth or Beatrix Potter, after cruising the lakes on steamboats, after dining on locally caught freshwater fish, visiting tarns and becks, fells and dales, taking in some of the country's most beautiful vistas and panoramas, Polly would ask, “When are we going to go to Lakeland Plastics?”

Towards the end of the fortnight, the early October weather turned more unsettled and a day taking in the shops of Bowness and Windermere seemed quite an attractive proposition. There were several bookshops I'd spotted and right at the top of the hill, next to the railway station was the afore mentioned Lakeland Plastics. Polly, with uncharacteristic patience, indulged me as I browsed shelves of local history books and biographies of Wordsworth and Arthur Ransome, and flicked through endless watercolours of the local landscapes, gently herding me up the hill towards her ultimate destination.

Finally we were inside the strip-lit outlet of all things kitchenware, polyurethane and pastel coloured. I feigned as much interest as I could in breakfast cereal storage options and plastic freezer boxes. Polly was remarkably restrained, only buying a few bits and pieces but taking note of things she would order later, so we eventually left the store relatively unburdened with carrier bags. A fine Cumbrian drizzle had started so we decided to head back to the warmth and dryness of our hotel. Polly hung the bags on the back of the heavy duty, out door powered wheelchair, the Cheetah, and we set off down the busy hill, lined with mostly inaccessible craft and gift shops.

The pavement (side walk) was much too narrow for us to walk side by side so Polly hung back a few feet. Something in one of the shop windows caught her eye and she paused briefly while I trundled on ahead. The drizzle turned to a light but coat soaking rain and my mind was fixed on getting to somewhere dry. As I approached the junction with a small side road the pavement steepened and slightly banked towards the road, the well worn, ancient, flagstones were greasy with the wet and before I knew it the wheelchair began to slide with a sickening, unstoppable inevitability towards the nine inch high curb and the busy traffic filled road. I pulled back on the joystick controller but the weight of the chair and the slickness of the ground beneath the wheels only produced a high pitched squealing sound and caused the chair to slew towards the side road. I heard Polly shout and felt her pulling on the back of the chair but gravity won out and the small leading wheels slipped over the curb, tilting the chair forward and sending me beyond the point of balance. There was a slow motion, plenty of time to see what was going to happen but nothing you can do about it moment, and I fell face forward from the chair. Polly just managed to stop the chair from following the over the edge and on top of me as I did a bone crunching three point landing, two knees and a chin, on to the rain soaked road. There was a shriek of brakes as startled drivers skidded to a halt around me and a kind of crunching, cracking sound as six of my teeth shattered. An awful lot of blood was being washed away from me and down a drain a few feet away.

Within a second Polly was kneeling beside me and crowd of curious and horrified on lookers had gathered. “Are you all right? Stephen? Say something.” “Uhggh. . .,” I replied. “Umph 'roken m' teef.” Little white pieces of enamel fell from my mouth. A local shopkeeper came rushing over carrying a small green box. “I'm trained in first aid,” he declared excitedly. “Sod that,” said someone else. “Call an ambulance.”

I don't know if you have ever lain face down in a Cumbrian towns main road, causing a massive tailback of traffic, but if you have, like me, you will probably not remember the experience fondly. It was cold and wet, shock was setting in, and the ambulance was taking forever to get there because some fool was lying in the road holding up the traffic. Polly had to stop well meaning people from 'helping to get him back on his feet' or practising their Cub Scout first aid training. My teeth began to chatter and that hurt like hell.

Later, much later, at a casualty unit in Kendal my chin was stitched up and I was given some painkillers. I asked to see a dentist but they looked at me as if I was asking for an audience with the alien leader of a small planet circling one of the stars in Orion's belt, so I was resigned to waiting until we got back to London. The inside of my mouth felt distinctly unfamiliar.

We still had a couple of days left of our honeymoon but by the following day my tongue had begun to swell and turn a fetching shade of black. Somehow the romance had gone out of it. By the time we were back at home my tongue was rubbed raw on the jagged edges of my teeth and I was slightly feverish. Miraculously I didn't lose any of my teeth. Six were cracked and broken but I didn't lose them. Even today if I run my tongue around my mouth I can feel the damage. And a shiver runs down my spine every time I see a plastic freezer box.

And so ends the saga of our honeymoon, our first holiday together. Fortunately this was not a foretaste of things to come. Over the last 15 years we have had plenty of lovely holidays, some of them without incident. (Not many, but a few.)

I'm Expensive

We had a phone call from the district nurses this morning, Apparently all the confusion last week was our fault. We're not quite sure how but it certainly wasn't their fault. We didn't give them the dates or rather we didn't make sure they had written them down. And they are very busy and can't just pop round at my beck and call. And no we can't organise for my usual carers to do the job, I'm under nursing care. Oh, and my care package is very expensive as it is.

“Not as expensive as it would be if I walked out on him,” said Polly through gritted teeth. Which sort of answers a question asked of me by 'ameenab` in the comments for 'Wee`ll Meet Again`. He or she (I'm sorry 'ameenab', I really don't know) wrote -

I've been reading your blog for a while now. I have MD too and it's really helpful for me to read your stories.

One thing that gets me though - why don't you use live-in care? I have used 24 hour live-in PAs, directed by me, for ten years. I would never go back to having to go to the toilet and go to bed only when the care staff turn up. OK, so it's a bit weird having someone around all the time, but you get used to it. And the point is that you can ask them to leave you alone if you want to because you are in charge.

Your care needs are far higher than mine so I don't understand why you don't have a 24 hr package. Is this postcode lottery at work or do you just not want it?

I'm married. It is assumed by all that my beloved will meet my needs and be my live-in care. She is presumed to be my P.A., my 24 hours-a-day care package. The fact that we have two children and she works is barely taken into consideration. Polly was quite taken by the idea of live-in help but can't think where they would do the live-in part. I saw her eyeing up the shed.

I'm not sure what would happen if I insisted on a P.A. If Polly withdrew her 'care'. If. I married her because I loved her, not because I needed a carer. I still love her but I recognise I need more help than I did 15 years ago. I need a carer, yes, but l want a wife more.

Of course, there are advantages to being married to your primary carer. I have two children.

In The Post

Polly and I are back from our anniversary lunch. We went to The Post Restaurant in Banstead, Surrey. It is a converted post office, all white walls and abstract art, owned by 'TV Chef' Tony Tobin. Polly had baked haloumi cheese on a mixed salad with lemon oil and balsamic dressing, followed by smoked haddock risotto. I had spaghettini pasta with tiger prawns, crab, chilli, ginger and garlic, followed by Steak and Guinness pie served with fresh seasonal vegetables, creamy mashed potato and gravy. We were too full up to contemplate a dessert.

I would love to be able to relate a hilarious and wrath causing tale of poor access and uncivil staff, but unfortunately the restaurant has ramped access and a large level dining area. The staff were completely unfazed by the wheelchair. They even offered, unbidden, to supply a drinking straw with my orange juice. Perfect? Well yes, except that I managed to inhale a flake of crab and spent the meal desperately trying not to cough. So romantic.

Thank God she loves me.

15 And Counting

Tomorrow is Polly and my 15th wedding anniversary. I'm fairly sure now if we were to split no one would expect us to give them their wedding present back. Not that we are planning to split, we are very happy together despite the ever shifting ground on which our lives are played out on. In fact, a side from the recent down turn in the Muscular Dystrophy stakes with all its complicating factors, Polly and I are entering yet another new era. Both our children are in full time education. For the first time in over eight years our home is a child free zone between 9.00am and 3.30pm. Yesterday we found ourselves with time to have a conversation. A real grown up chat. And it wasn't even last thing at night when we were both exhausted.

We've booked to go to a very nice restaurant for lunch tomorrow and yes, I have remembered to buy an anniversary present. All things being equal, I'm greatly looking forward to the next 15 years. And since all things won't be equal I'm so glad I've got Polly to share my life with.

A Pain In The Chest

There is little more unsettling for a man in his 40s than a pain in the chest, particularly the left side of the chest and down the left arm. I know it is unsettling because I have just had such an experience. On Friday I became aware of an ever increasing ache down my side and I have to admit I was getting a tad nervous. I casually mentioned it to Polly who immediately rang for an ambulance – Oh no she didn't, I forgot, she rolled her eyes and reminded me that a few months a go I'd had an ECG and that my heart was determined to be the fittest thing about me. “Besides,” she added, “you never get ill on a Monday morning, it's always bloody Friday night when casualty is shot full of drunks and getting someone to look after the boys is virtually impossible.”

“You don't care,” I muttered.

Polly spent the next 40 minutes listing in exacting detail the many many ways in which she cares for me. Once we'd passed helping me go to the loo, cutting my toe nails and practically dying during the birth of my second son, she sailed on with reminding me of the nights she'd sat by my bed in Intensive Care and the times she moved my shoulder, leg or head in the middle of the night. “And. . . and. . . I married you!” I said I was sorry.

I spent the night in some degree of pain (physical not emotional) and tried to work out what was happening. I realised it wasn't my heart, unless I had been been grossly misinformed during biology classes at school, and the heart was actually located outside of the ribcage. The pain felt muscular and was most acute when I moved my arm in certain ways. And then I remembered. That morning when I was being hoisted from the bed to the wheelchair I had partially slipped out of the sling. At the time I had felt a sharp jolt of pain in my left knee as my weight was suddenly transferred to that joint and I had been distracted from any other damage done. I must have wrenched one or more of the muscles on the left of my chest.

Saturday was miserable as every time I moved my left arm I was incapacitated by pain all down my side. Every now and then Polly would say something along the lines of “And I cooked you a roast chicken last Sunday even though I'm a vegetarian!” It was a long long day.

Sunday morning dawned at last. Polly mentioned that she was also the one who drove me everywhere. Kalepo and Godfrey got me into the wheelchair and helped me in the bathroom where during getting washed one of them moved my arm in such a way that something went clunk. Not click – clunk. The pain suddenly eased. Not a lot but enough to give me hope. It still hurt but the sudden intense sharp pains were better. As I left the bathroom I heard Polly call out “I wonder who cares enough about you to do all your dirty laundry?”

Now it's Monday and I'm taking slightly fewer painkillers. It still feels as if a particularly vicious bison has kicked me under one arm but I think I'll feel better sometime soon. . . when is Christmas? Polly seems to have forgiven me (Lord knows she's had enough practice) but still occasionally drops in an “Oh and I care enough to. . .” into a conversation.

I'm going to have some tea now. And yes, Polly's cooked it.

A Clarification (Under No Duress Whatsoever)

Polly, upon reading the last post, The Honeymoon Story (Part Two), wishes me to clarify something; and since she feeds me, cares for my children, attends to my medical needs, and sleeps with me, it would be churlish, not to say dangerous, to deny her.

She wishes me to make known that the reason we ran out of petrol was not because she negligently did not fill the tank when needed but because the petrol gage was faulty and indicated that the tank was ¼ full. There, I'm sure we all feel better for knowing that.

Oh, and while Polly agrees that the incident was terrifying, she says it pales into insignificance when compared to what happened later.

The Honeymoon Story (Part One)

In which a Swiss Army knife is needed.

The first night of your honeymoon is supposed to be memorable, and believe me Polly's and mine certainly was. If you've been following the tale of our wedding day then you will know that we had both been sent to be covered in confetti at an event called London Lights. Afterwards we were driven to our flat where we met up with my best man Kevin and his partner Harvey who had been unloading the huge pile of wedding presents and cafetieres.

The story continues. . .

In those long agodays I used a manual wheelchair for everyday use but had a high powered out door electric wheelchair for whizzing to the shops and such like. We had hired a small van for the duration of the honeymoon and Kevin and Harvey helped us load the heavy chair in to it. I made the, by today's standard easy, transfer to the passenger seat and we were off. Polly did not yet know where we were spending our wedding night so I directed us through South London towards Wimbledon.

Polly grew up a few miles from Wimbledon common and had spent many happy times there. On the edge of the common is an area called Cannizaro Park, named for the house that has stood there in one form or another since the 18^th Century. When Polly was a girl the house was a rather twee nursing home and she could see

residents taking tea on the veranda from the house's now public gardens. She often wondered what it was like inside the grand building. In the late 1980s the house was converted into a fine country hotel and this was where

we were heading.

Our little Ford Escort van pulled into the car park and found a space between a BMW and a Mercedes and we made our way into the hotel. Dressed in our best going away outfits we didn't look too out of place as we were led to our room but both felt that any second someone would demand to know what we thought we were doing there. Our room was lovely, with an en suite bathroom, and their was a bottle of Champagne waiting for us. We couldn't spend long in there because we had a table booked in the restaurant. So, grabbing our bottle of Champagne, we headed back downstairs.

The restaurant was silver service and when our main course arrived and as two waiters dramatically lifted the silver domes from the plates I watched Polly struggle not to say “Ta-dah”. The meal was great and we realized how hungry we were having not managed more than a mouthful at the reception what with the speeches and the catching up with friends and relatives. It was late by the time we got back to our room and we were both tired.

I went into the bathroom and was relieved to find the wheelchair just squeezed through the doorway without scratching too much paint in the process. A few minutes later, face scrubbed and teeth brushed, I turned the chair around and prepared to return to the room and hopefully some nuptials. Unfortunately although the chair squeezed in it wouldn't squeeze out. The door opened inwards and was prevented from hitting the wall by a small rubber doorstop. On the way in the doorstop gave just enough to allow the chair in but going out was another matter. I tried, I really tried, but on the first night of my honeymoon I was firmly stuck in the bathroom while my beloved changed in to something appropriate for the occasion.

I called for Polly who came and pushed at the door trying to get the doorstop to give enough to let me out. It was useless and after several minutes of trying she had to concede defeat. “I suppose we could sleep in the bath,” I said. “There's a great big comfy bed in there. You can sleep in the bath, I know where I'm sleeping.”

After a few more fruitless moments of increasingly frustrating pushing and shoving Polly had a brainwave. She got up and found her handbag and I heard her rummaging through it. She returned waving a two inch red Swiss Army knife. Somewhere among the serrated blades, pointy things and stone removers was a small screwdriver. The rubber doorstop was was unscrewed and at last I was set free. Polly clicked the knife shut and I followed to the bedroom.

In the morning we were off to the English Lake District for two weeks and by now it was past midnight and we were both exhausted. Polly, armed and beautiful looked at me, smiled and asked, “So, what should we do now?” I looked at her, I looked at the bed. “Sleep?” I said hopefully. “Oh, thank goodness for that,” she said and promptly fell asleep.

Food For Thought

Pam, my mother-in-law popped round today, laden with food as usual. When Polly and I first got together she was not best pleased. Her darling youngest daughter had been away for a year in Romania looking after the babies with no mummies and daddies and now she was back and everything was going to go back to how it had been before she left. Paula had recently married and moved to Ramsgate and Irene was in Texas. Polly was going to move back in to the family home, go back to nursery nursing and that would be that. Unfortunately she hadn't taken me in to account.

The first time I met Pam was when I brought Polly home from the airport. A friend and I had picked her up from Stanstead Airport. It had been the first time we had laid eyes on each other since the phone call in February (see A Fine Romance (Part 2)). The meeting with Pam was brief but cordial. Polly was hustled in side and Pam thanked me politely. It was all a bit anti-climatic after all the anticipation.

A few hours later Polly was standing on my doorstep and grinning from ear to ear. From then on we spent as much time together as possible. And the more time we spent together the less pleased Pam was. Pam's displeasure caused Polly a great deal of distress. She and her mother had always been very close and the tension was hurting both of them. When I proposed to Polly a few weeks later matters came to a head. The situation became intolerable with Polly torn between her family and her fiancé. I recognised that Pam had legitimate concerns. She didn't know me, she'd only briefly met a guy in a wheelchair who had snared her daughter, of course she was worried. She also felt she was going to lose Polly if we moved away like Paula and Irene. So, one evening I settled down to write one of the most important things I've ever written, a letter to Pam.

I can't remember exactly what I wrote but I do know that I assured her that no one would ever love Polly as much as I did. I sent the letter and that was it. It was as if a switch had been thrown. Pam's acceptance was total. I was family. Pam is of a generation and background that doesn't express love with hugs and words. She uses food. The first meal she ever cooked me was steak and chips, mushrooms, tomatoes and onion rings. British readers will know what I mean when I say that the plate was piled high like an illustration from the Beano or Dandy. It was the kind of meal Desperate Dan would tuck in to. It was enormous. And I, wary or my new welcome status, felt obliged to eat it all. My stomach tighter than a drum, I forced the last chip down to Pam's obvious delight. She immediately bustled out to the kitchen to prepare a second serving. I silently pleaded with Polly to intercede and then heard her assuring Pam that a second steak would only spoil me. Pam was only mollified when she was able to present me with a vast meringue and ice cream confection..

Throughout the years of my marriage Pam has rarely arrived to visit with out a bag full of cakes, biscuits and chocolate. If I ate everything she brought for me I would be the type or person who needs a fire crew and team of engineers to get out of the house. Polly assures me that if she stops bringing. food she will have stopped loving me. So far there's no sign of me going hungry.

A Happy Day

We went to a wedding yesterday. Andy and Jo, I doubt you are reading this because you have other things on your minds, but congratulations and. thanks for a lovely day. Andy is the eldest son of my friend, the late Rob Frost., and so there were more preachers, ministers and pastors than you could shake a stick at. Rob, who died of Cancer late last year, was a minister, evangelist, radio and TV presenter, writer of countless books and articles, producer, entrepreneur, novelist and doctor of theology. I worked with him over a period of more than 20 years and we travelled tens of thousands of miles together. He wasn't concerned about my disability, only my ability to deliver the written material he commissioned and keep some kind of control of the theatre company I ran. His death has left a void in many lives. So to see Andy (who in my mind is permanently aged 13 and in to World Wrestling Federation and therefore far to young to be getting married) marrying Jo was a wonderful and uplifting occasion.

The wedding was not a traditional affair. The bride and groom entered and walked down the aisle together to some kind of pop song I didn't recognise, the pastor, groom, bride, and mother of the groom all gave talks, and during the prayers the happy couple were literally uplifted before the Lord. This last exercise was something I personally would have practised a bit beforehand because it looked rather precarious to me. It was all rather sweet and fun but I did have some empathy with Andy's grandfather, Rev Ron 'Boss' Frost Snr, who when closing the celebrations said, some what wryly, “At least we will finish with a traditional benediction.” But I know Rob would have loved every glorious minute of it.

The Problem With Polly

I married Polly on a sunshine and showers September Saturday in 1993, some two and a half years after I had first laid eyes on her. More than 200 people had travelled from all over the country and as far a field as America to share the day with us. The church, Holy Trinity, Wimbledon, was packed with friends, family and well-wishers and I remember waiting thinking “Please turn up, please turn up”. She did of course, veiled and radiant, as beautiful as anything I'd ever seen, processing up the aisle on the arm of her father. When she reached me at at the altar she took my hand and squeezed it tightly, and in a sense, has never let it go since.

So what's the problem with Polly? Why was she prepared to throw her life away and marry a severely disabled person? What were the possibilities? She is incredibly ugly and therefore grateful that anyone would give her a second glance. Nope. At 24 Polly was lovely. Someone I knew said that if he'd seen her first things would have been different, he would have snapped her up. Polly, when I told her agreed things would have been different, he would never have seen her again. By the way, 15 years later she is still lovely.

Perhaps Polly is one of those women who writes to serial killers on death row and forms romantic attachments safe in the knowledge that she and her beau will never really be together. Nope. Polly had had previous relationships and as far as l know none of them required visitor passes or a full body cavity search. In short Polly was looking for a 'normal` relationship.

So obviously Polly was a deeply insecure woman, lacking in confidence and therefore pathetically thankful for any attention given to her, whatever the source. Nope. Don't forget, Polly had given up a secure job, gone to theatre school, and then moved to Romania for a year to work with the babies with no mummies and daddies. So no, she didn't lack confidence or self-esteem.

During the year Polly and I were engaged all these, and other theories, were speculated upon. Virtual strangers would accost Polly and demand to know if she'd thought through what she was doing. She was told she didn't have to marry me; we could just be friends and she could still look after me. Leaving aside the sagacity or impertinence of the actual advice it was the fact that people felt so free to voice their opinions directly to us. I understand that a degree of gossip was inevitable but it was the sense of being public property that bemused me.

I must say that our friends were wonderfully supportive. They knew us and if they had reservations they didn't feel obligated to direct our attention to them on the pretext of making sure we knew what we were doing.

The wedding went without a hitch. We remembered each others name, the best man did not lose the rings for comic affect, and the littlest bridesmaid remained cute throughout. After the service we processed through the rain, Romanian style, complete with an accordion player leading the way, the few hundred yards to the Methodist Church round the corner where the reception was to be held. Polly had decided

on an afternoon tea theme, and so tables laden with cakes and sandwiches awaited us, as well as a spectacular and beautiful three tier wedding cake. A quartet played in the corner and despite, or perhaps because of, the lack of alcohol the atmosphere was warm and vibrant. My best man, Kevin gave a funny speech at my expense and didn't mention how brave I am once. Despite there being a surfeit of. food Polly and I hardly got to eat a thing, there being so many people from so many facets of our lives to talk to. Eventually we had to leave. We were whisked away in a friends posh car (don't ask what kind, it had four wheels and smelt of leather). But we weren't finished yet.

As our reception was winding down another event was starting a few miles a way in Raynes Park. London

Lights was an event organised by Rob Frost and broadcast live by Premier Radio across London. Rob had asked us to 'pop' in and say hello. Since Rob often employed me as a writer and Polly as an actor (and because Rob was a friend and had been been at the wedding earlier) we could hardly say no. Over 300 people greeted us as once again we walked up an aisle. Singer/songwriter Paul

Field sang us a song and we were copiously covered in confetti. And then, to a standing ovation, we were on our way again.

Kevin and his partner Harvey were already at our flat and had unloaded a mother-lode of wedding presents. We had had a wedding list but I kept forgetting what was on it. I did know there was one thing that I felt we needed but was missed off the list. Which is how we ended up with seven Cafetieres.

That day was nearly 15 years ago. So, to all those people who were worried about us, I think it turned out all right. Of course we still had the honeymoon to come. What could possibly go wrong?