Normal for Norfolk

I'm trying to get my life to return to some kind of normality - just a fleeting visit to the GP's surgery in the last few days to pick up a prescription and clock the look of alarm on the receptionist's face fading as she realised I wasn't there to 'stay' so to speak.

Recovering Husband is still at home, as he will continue to be for the next month until he can start the new job. Oh, if I had a quid for the times I've been asked how I cope with Husband at home. And another quid for the times women have told me how hard they'd find it. Which they would, believe me. So, how do I cope? Well, how does anyone? It's a waking nightmare. Kind of like the reverse of having a bad dream and pinching yourself to make sure you are actually awake. In this scenario, you feel profound disappointment that you really are.


Anyway, today I took the chance to escape. Now that Recovering Husband is capable of Doing Things, he took the kids to his parents for lunch and dropped me in the city. Or 'Up the Ci'ee' as they say in Norfolk. I had an appointment with my contact lens man and a few things to pick up for a 40th birthday party at the weekend which has specified a 70s/80s dress code. The days of dressing up as Abba or Madonna without looking like a drag queen are decidedly behind one in one's 39th year, so I'd thought I'd slip into Claire's Accessories for some glittery things to accessorise the sort of thing my mother used to wear to Pippa Dee parties in my childhood. Now, I am the mother of boys, and have just spent three months inhabiting waiting rooms, so shiny, sparkly girl-palaces don't tend to characterise my shopping experiences and I was rather looking forward to it. I now have a Mental Note to Self for the future: unless shopping with young girl and/or wishing to feel as old and hairy as Gandalf, avoid Claire's Accessories at all costs. Stick with John Lewis, Boots, Superdrug, or better still, the cosmetic enhancements offered by Superglue and Vaseline.

Refusing to be subdued by the culture shocks of a) being Up the Ci'ee and b) how bloody old I am (it's easier to see the traces of youth left in yourself when you spend weeks discussing scones with pensioners), I found myself relieved to have the excuse of my contact lens appointment to avoid more shops. I've been seeing the same opti-whatsit for years. Mr Lens (we'll call him Lenny) and I have, over the years, become somewhat acquainted with each other's lives - he's followed my pregnancies and journey through small-boy motherhood, I've followed his journeys through big-boy fatherhood - and I'm comfortable with that. It's nice. Gives you a feeling of being more than just a number on the Direct Debit transfers. But as I said, this is my life and my life doesn't really do 'normal'. Even for Norfolk.
'Now,' said Lenny, as I settle in the chair after the initial greetings. 'When did I see you last?'
'Oo, er, some time last year? Autumn time, was it?'
'That's about right,' he says, consulting his notes. 'Now. Was that before or after I had the trouble down below?'
'Pardon me?'
'I told you about it, didn't I? The old, you know, swollen testicle.'
'Um. No. I don't think so.'
'Didn't I? Oh, worrying times, we've had. One so much bigger than the other, you know. Massive. Had to do all the old BUPA visit, you know. Bit of an op.'
'Oh. Dear. Is it–?
'Oh, fine. Yes. Worrying though, waiting for a while to find out.'
'Yes, I can imagine, we've just-'
'All sorted now though. Apart from a little bit of trouble in the night. You know. Going. Get up with the urge and go to the bathroom and nothing. Get back into bed and have to get up again and go no trouble. Drives the wife mad.'
'Mmm.'
'Still, you'll laugh. One of the things they told me after the op was that it's quite normal - 60 per cent, in fact - that when you make love, you still get the orgasm but there can be a distinct lack of fluid.'
'Oh, really? How, um, mm-'
'Told the beloved that, quite seriously, you know, sat down at the kitchen table - I mean, I'm quite attached to all that down there, don't want to think there's something really wrong - and do you know what she said? ''Well, I hope you're in the 60 per cent'', she said, ''less flaming laundry for me!'' ' Lenny laughs heartily. 'Thought you'd find that funny!'
Laugh totally falsely. Resist temptation to ask why. Do I look like the sort of woman tickled by stories of other people's bodily fluid functions? Do I?
'Still', he says, wiping his eyes, 'At least they know it's not the prostrate. Thank God.'
'No. You don't want-'
'No. I mean the surgeon said to me, he said, normally your prostrate is fine, I can give it a prod and it's like' - gestures with hand like child imitating star in Twinkle Twinkle song - 'but this time he really had to fiddle about. So he wanted the tests to be sure.'
'Yes. He would.'
'So,' says Lenny, finally leaning in towards me. 'How are we getting on with these eyes then?'

It's not like I don't try to have a normal life. You just try carrying on with your shopping 'normally' after that little lot.