Friday

For the second time in a few days, The Dog inexplicably bailed on a favourite walk. Once again she started out really keen – tail up and sniffing everywhere. Once again, after no more than 100m from the car, she stopped and gave us that look.

“Do you know what? I don’t really fancy this.”

We didn’t force her to go on and let her lead us where she wanted to go. She took us back to the car. We didn’t argue. We just discussed how pleased we were that The Dog had grown in confidence and ability to let us know that there was something she didn’t want to do and trust that her opinion would be respected.

But I still don’t understand what it was that put her off the walk. All I know is that she’s able to smell and hear things we can’t so it could have been that. She’s also able to sense things we can’t begin to understand. Lesley and I often talk about our first meeting at the rescue and how a dog that had been so horribly mistreated by humans could have taken to us so quickly.

“What do you think she saw in us?”

“That we’re a couple of mugs who’d let her get away with anything?”

Probably.

There was the possibility that she was feeling a bit rough after yesterday’s visit to The Vet. Feeling flushed with the success of the annual vaccination booster a few weeks ago we’d decided to go for a kennel cough vaccination for the first time too. Once again the people in the park were treated to the sight of me and The Dog half under a duvet on the ground. Once again, Bridget administered the injection without The Dog being aware of what had happened.

But with the morning walk cut short, we wondered whether we would be able to fit in a visit to Lesley’s dad’s house in the afternoon.

“Let’s go home and have a coffee first.” I suggested.

The hay-fever season this year has really dragged on. I’m normally done by mid-May but I’m still streaming. Being bunged up for weeks at a time always used to lead to me having a sinus infection in the past. The same is true this year too.

“Are we still going to your dad’s? I don’t feel that great.”

“You look terrible. Go to bed.”

After a couple of hours of restorative slumber I was set to work on the last remaining pile of artifacts that I’d brought back from my last visit to Mum’s house. These included, in no particular order:

• every wedding invitation she’d ever received
• orders of service, reception place name tags and table decorations from every wedding she’d attended
• every letter of thanks from grandchildren after Christmas and birthday gifts
• programmes and leaflets from every christening, confirmation and school production the grandchildren were involved in
• every wedding anniversary card she’d ever received
• programmes from graduation ceremonies for her children

Among the more special items were a letter from one of Dad’s friends who he’d known since National Service days and a small cardboard box.

The letter was thanking Mum and Dad for their Christmas card and expressed sadness at learning of Dad’s poor health. There was also regret that they hadn’t been able to meet up since leaving the RAF. It was a lovely letter. Amazing that they’d kept in touch all those years but then we’re the same with our friends from university. I need to check whether anyone knows if the sender is still alive so we can let him know about what’s happened our end.

The box contained an old Union Flag and an embroidered handkerchief from Tel Aviv. I don’t know of anyone in the family who’s been to Tel Aviv so we’ve got no idea where it came from. I know that one of Mum’s uncles got sent to the Middle East in WWII. After the beach landings in Italy he went east and ended up in Baghdad instead of fighting through Europe. He may have passed through Tel Aviv on the way but that’s just a wild guess. Another possibility is that it could have come from a friend of Mum’s dad’s. Weeks ago I found a postcard from someone called Harry who’d been friends with Grandad in the army in WWI. He had written a card from Palestine when his regiment got sent there. Another wild guess. The handkerchief didn’t look a hundred years old.

A quick search online showed that the flag with its distinctive patriotic quotes on each side was from WWI so it was likely to be her mum’s. Someone is trying to sell a good one on eBay for thirty-odd quid. A pristine framed one went for over a grand in the US. But Mum’s one is far from good. If it has any value at all it’ll be sentimental rather than monetary. Or so I thought.

I shared my finds on the Siblings WhatsApp group. Just as with the decent scarves there was no reaction. I that Eldest Sister who seems to have taken on the role of Keeper of Family History on Mum’s side of the family might have been interested but no. Nothing yet.

“I think the flag is really interesting. Your family are just weird.”

I don’t think it’s weird. Just a bit sad that I have the feeling that because Mum kept so much tat – and she kept everything – it’s devalued everything she kept. Ultimately, I don’t think we took anything she said or did seriously enough. Ever.

Bloody hell.

Author’s Note

My Mum was in a nursing home in the Thames Valley for a year and a half until she passed away in December 2024. My Father-in-law went into the same home the following January. But Lesley’s sister didn’t approve and made the situation so awkward that he had to be moved. He passed away in March 2025. Names and locations have been changed or hidden to protect the identities of those involved.

Image Credit

Original Image by Nick Gilmore. June 2025.