Ashes, cats and dogs

There are some advantages to being diagnosed with a disease which requires treatment and rest through the summer months. The fact my chemo cycles coincide with an Ashes summer brings some low-key joy and respite. Although, that could quickly turn to melancholy if the 'Bazball' rebirth proves premature, England wilt in the Aussie cauldron and end up reverting to being... England. Still, at least, as mentioned previously, I've witnessed West Ham win their first trophy since 1980 and seen my 'home' county cricket team, the plucky Worcestershire, mostly not conspire to shoot themselves in the foot so far this season.

It was our youngest daughter Macy's 18th birthday yesterday. She celebrated it with a physics 'A' level exam followed by a family Domino's takeaway in the evening. Macy thought her birthday had come early on Wednesday when she scooped up a stray kitten positioned periliously near the main road on her way to school (pictured above). Unfortunately for her, after taking it to the vets and her school sharing the photo on social media (note the Head of Sixth Form's cool punk artwork in the background!), the cat's owners reclaimed it. However, I'm now concerned my efforts to prevent us taking a third cat into the Bate househould have been weakened by this flurry of feline excitement.

This week's ongoing warm weather has seen me take regular early morning walks, before it gets too hot, where I've come across some lovely poppies showing themselves in the local fields. Yesterday, I spotted one poking its head through a crack in the pavement around the corner from our home (pictured below) which felt like a hopeful sign of battling the odds. Talking of which, my third cycle of chemo has gone well so far, despite my chemo pump not kicking in initially due to a kink in my PICC line which Lisa (the DIY hero in our house) managed to fix. This meant I had the pump on for a day longer than normal before it was unhooked by the district nurse this morning.

I also had a helpful message from our old friend Sharon about the Five Stages Of Grief and my early interactions with them. Looking back at my fairly raw last post, it does seem I'm now dipping into several of those five stages (denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance), sometimes simultaneously, sometimes deeply, or fleetingly. The one I've not sensed in any meaningful way yet is acceptance, but it's good to know that it's still on the menu. It's also free-ing to know that the grief we're feeling isn't a phase we have to get past or beat, but, as expert David Kessler says, is something we grow larger around rather than the grief getting smaller. I've also started reading the autobiography of James Finley (the 'we're protected from nothing, but sustained in everything' chap I keep quoting!) called The Healing Path. Finley, who began writing the book as his wife Maureen lay dying at his side, talks about the "bittersweet alchemy" that occurs when "the polar opposite realms of trauma and transcendence meet". That's something fresh to chew on!

As well as sport, one of the sometimes underrated home comforts I've always drawn a lot from is a good television series. Over recent years, long-running shows like The Wire, This Is Us, Better Call Saul, Six Feet Under, Succession, Happy Valley and anything by Shane Meadows (such as This Is England and The Virtues) have led to many engrossed hours with Lisa, unwinding after work or over the weekend. Gentle comedies like Mortimer And Whitehouse: Gone Fishing and Ted Lasso also provide sweet distraction, and sometimes moments of empathy. During lockdown, TV also worked as a Bate family bonding ritual, as we sniggered our way through lengthy box sets like The American Office and Friday Night Dinner.

With time to kill after my diagnosis, I've also imbibed some top-class music documentaries like Peter Jackson's epic eight-hour The Beatles: Get Back, on the Fab Four's final album and rooftop concert, and the tragic Bee Gees: How Can You Mend A Broken Heart.

But I'd like to give a slightly extended mention to two recently-watched series, both on BBC iPlayer, which I'd highly recommend if you're after something new:

Once Upon A Time In Northern Ireland is one of the most moving, devastating, insightful investigations into grief, loss, despair and courage that I've ever watched. Formed purely of archive footage and interviews with people from all sides who've 'survived' The Troubles, its genius is in showing the humanity of both victims and perpertators who, we find out, sometimes have those categories blurred. How do you live 30 years later with the knowledge that the men who blew up your dad in a bookies still live a few streets away and have never been brought to justice? Or process the childhood devastation of your mother being marched from your home and 'disappeared' because she grew up on the wrong side of the sectarian divide, and was punished for helping an injured soldier? Or the normalisation of young children finding butchered body parts in the streets, and blood on their shoes, on their way home from school? There was the woman who still can't forgive the murderers of her police officer husband, and the hardliner, imprisoned with the first hunger strikers, who walked away from terrorism when given a me-or-them ultimatimum by his wife. And, in it all, the sensitive interview settings which spent time lingering on the subjects shuffling in their seats, chomping biscuits to calm their nerves, capturing their vulnerability as they told their harrowing, and sometimes redemptive, tales. Although I've not seen the final episode yet, this series has brought me to tears on several occasions but also somehow conveyed the resilience of the human spirit to keep searching for a better future.

At the other end of the spectrum, Colin From Accounts was recommended to us by our Derby friends Helen And Jon. It's a gentle but dry Aussie rom-com where the two main characters (Ashley and Gordon, who are actually married in real life) meet when one of them accidentally runs over an escapee dog while distracted by the other. Their unlikely, dysfunctional relationship, stop-starts as they argue over who will take care of the loveable, crippled canine Colin, with his new wheels-for-back-legs, and gradually gets behind the self-protective masks each has set up. Although it doesn't have any over-lofty ambitions, there are some moving and insightful glimpses, including dealing with a parent who can't express their acceptance of their grown-up child. There are also a couple of unexpected cancer and death-bed storylines which felt a bit near to the knuckle. Plus a hilarious set-piece about the dangers of underestimating a fart. What more could you want for a Friday night?

And the Ashes has begun with a bang too...