A Simple Operation by Jenny Palmer, bottle of flavoured water

 

- times,’ the receptionist said. ‘First, for the field test and OCT scan, then to see a consultant who will decide if you need the procedure and, if so, a third time.  And you won’t be able to drive for the last two visits as we’ll need to put drops in.’  

‘No, I hadn’t realised that,’ I said. ‘But I’ve already had a field test and a scan at my optician’s. Do I really have to have another one?’

‘I’m sorry but that’s just the way it is,’ she said. ‘So shall I book you in then?’

‘I guess so,’ I said meekly, my heart sinking at the thought of all those bus journeys I’d have to plan. It would be like planning a military operation.

The benefits of living in a beautiful area in the countryside cannot be overstated but one of the drawbacks is the lack of rural bus services. To save on the number of services and maximise the number of passengers, buses have doubled up lately and now take a slow and winding path through adjoining towns and villages, picking up people at every available stop. First, I would need to hike for a mile uphill to the bus stop at the crossroads where I would take one bus into town and then wait for a connection to my final destination.

Finding an online bus timetable proved impossible, since I didn’t have all the necessary apps. Luckily, I had amassed enough timetables from walking expeditions over the course of the year.  Technically speaking, I could have driven for that first appointment, as it didn’t entail eye drops, but going by bus would be a good way of testing out the route. The journey would take two hours in each direction, so I took along a packed lunch in case there were no cafes on the way. Might as well make a day of it, I thought.

My journey soon turned into a trip down memory lane. I found myself recalling people and places from my past.  In those days, the industrial North was in decline, and I couldn’t wait to get away and see the world. Any trip back up North only confirmed these feelings. I saw it as depressing. It would no place in my future. As far as I was concerned, people were dowdy and downtrodden. If truth be told, I wasn’t looking forward to setting foot in the town again. There was nothing there but charity shops, people said. 

 I must have looked lost when I got off the bus at the bus station, because a couple of people rushed towards me offering help.

‘I know just where you want to go,’ one elderly man said, glancing at the appointment letter I was clutching. ‘It’s for your eyes, isn’t it?’

He pointed out the building which housed the health clinic, giving me precise directions as to how to get there and where exactly to cross the road.

I was half an hour early for my appointment and was surprised to find the waiting room empty. Usually in hospitals these days you are faced with a room full of disgruntled people, but I was the only one there. I didn’t even have time to start on my sandwich before I was called in. The nurse kept telling me how well I was doing, as I was spotting the green lights in the field test. I took it as a compliment even though I knew it had nothing to do with ability. 

   All this meant I was able to catch the earlier bus back. On the way home, even though the bus followed the same winding path, I was seeing things in a new light. It had all been so quick and easy. The people were so helpful. The staff were so cheerful. The front gardens we passed were full of flowers.  One down, two to go! I thought. I know it sounds crazy but during the course of that journey home, I felt as if I was falling back in love with the North. 

About the author

Jenny Palmer writes short stories, poetry, memoir and family history. Her collections 'Keepsake and Other Stories,' 2018, and 'Butterflies and Other Stories,' 2024, were published by Bridge House, and are on Amazon. 'Witches, Quakers and Nonconformists,' 2022, is sold at the Pendle Heritage Centre, Barrowford.. 

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee?. Half of what you pay goes to the author the oher half goes to expense se.g. Maintaining hthe web site and setting up The Best of Café Lit book each year.

Counting Sheep by Jenny Palmer, Chamomile tea

The fog was starting to clear. The sheep were on the move. The farmer must be about. He would be bringing them theirdaily rations of sheep nuts to keep them going through the winter. Julia loved watching them. Fat with lambs, they ran in single file to assemble as a flock in the spot where he would dole out the feed. Some stragglers made up the rear. They were the ones who were going to have twins or triplets.  Once they’d eaten, most of the sheep would lie down and chew the cud. It was a sign that they were contented and well-fed. One of them just stood there, staring into space. What was it thinking? she wondered. Did sheep think?

Sometimes she wished she could stop thinking. Turn her brain off. Be more sheep. She was feeling sleep-deprived, having lain awake half the night watching YouTube videos and listening to podcasts. It was her own fault. She needed to take herself in hand again. She’d had these bouts of insomnia before.

As an asthmatic child, when she couldn’t breathe, she would cry out in the night for her mother to come, to give her a pill and rub her back. The attack would be over in twenty minutes or so and her mother would leave, telling her to count sheep. She liked to imagine the sheep jumping over a fence one by one, even though it was not in their nature to jump, except when they were lambs. But it was easier to count them that way. She rarely got to a hundred.

Insomnia was a real bind especially when you had to get up in the morning. The more you tried, the less you were ableto nod off. And she’d tried everything over the years: chamomile tea, cutting out caffeine, not drinking alcohol, going to bed earlier, mindfulness, meditation. Nothing seemed to work. Sometimes she’d get up, make a cup of tea, and readuntil she dropped off, but the house was too cold for that in winter. She’d end up turning on the radio to distract herself. It hadn’t exactly been comforting listening to the BBC World Service and following all the trouble spots around the globe.But at least it had been educational.

Since she’d retired, she’d embraced the new technologies. Nowadays she turned on her tablet to watch films, podcasts, and YouTube videos in bed at night. She liked to feel in touch with the world and hear the various analyses about what was going on behind the scenes. Nighttime was her favourite time of day, a time when she could absorb new information, learn something. And what with Netflix, Primeand Sky Atlantic, she was never short of anything to watch. But of late it was becoming a problem. Teenagers weren’t the only ones addicted to technology.    

Ever since that unhinged, demented, real estate manfrom reality TV had got into power in the US again, things had gone downhill. He was dismantling the rule-based international order. The whole world was living in a state of anxiety, watching his every move. The number of political podcasts had grown exponentially, and it was getting harder and harder to keep up.   She knew missing sleep was an unhealthy habit to get into. Research showed that lack of sleep caused all sorts of health problems. It could even shorten your life. That was something else to worry about.

How could she break the habit? It occurred to her one night that she could only allow herself to fall asleep once she’d found someone or something that gave her hope. Hope that the war in Ukraine might end, hope that there would be a political solution for the conflict in Gaza, or that nations might unite to combat climate change. Something to indicate thatthe world was not falling into chaos and that things would right themselves eventually. It was a hard ask. 

All this searching was sending her brain into overdrive. Not only was she over-tired but over-stimulated, making it impossible to sleep. If the world’s biggest brains couldn’t sort it out, how could she? She had been looking for answers where there were none. No one could tell her things would get better. The truth was it could go either way. Better to concentrate on the people and places around her, focus on them. Better to accept her limitations, like the Serenity Prayer said, and stop worrying. 

She managed to allow herself to fall asleep that night and didn’t wake up till after eleven. By the time she got up, the sheep had already congregated by the gate and were contentedly chewing the cud.  

About the author

Jenny Palmer writes short stories, poetry, memoir and family history. Her collections 'Keepsake and Other Stories.' 2018, and 'Butterflies and Other Stories,' 2024, were published by Bridge House, and are on Amazon. 'Witches, Quakers and Nonconformists,' 2022, is sold at the Pendle Heritage Centre, Barrowford

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)

Winds of Change by Jenny Palmer, lime cordial,

Kate hadn’t even noticed the beech trees an hour earlier when she’d been on her way to the doctor’s. Her mind had been elsewhere. All she could think about then was getting there on time. The appointment was at 8.30 a.m. It was unfortunate timing because it clashed with the arrival of the school buses which were offloading pupils all down the road, making it difficult to overtake.

As it happened there was time to spare, time to read the paper she’d bought on the way in. It was full of news about the Cop30 climate summit taking place in Brazil. The world’s biggest polluters weren’t even there. Trump had long ago withdrawn from the Paris climate agreement, and India and China were conspicuous by their absence.

‘Typical,’ she said out loud. The woman next to her seemed to be nodding in agreement.

‘Just as the Secretary General of the United Nations announces that the world is about to miss its target of reducing temperatures to 1.5 degrees Centigrade above preindustrial levels, Bill Gates sees fit to step in and claim that it’s time to stop worrying about carbon dioxide emissions and focus instead on relieving world poverty.’

There was no response from the woman this time, but it helped to vent so she carried on.

‘He’s no better than the other tech oligarchs, who want to further their own interests and increase their profits by prolonging the use of oil and fossil fuels to power their AI data centres. They seem to think that climate change can be dealt with by technological solutions, rather than by garnering political will.’

The woman’s name was called out, and she left in a hurry.

It had been a long wait for this appointment. Kate had tried not to read too much into it, but her anxiety had only increased in the meantime. It felt like her world depended on the results. But it was good news. The doctor had reassured her there was nothing serious to worry about. She was elated. All she wanted to do was get home, have a coffee, take it in.

On her way back, she was struck by the sight of beech trees just past where the old community hospital used to stand, before they knocked it down and turned it into houses. The leaves on the other trees in the vicinity had been blown off in heavy gales the weekend before. Only the beech leaves remained. They were floating down to join the carpet of leaves on the road. The colours ranged from auburn to burnt orange and were set against a grey, cloud-ridden sky, giving the impression of a Pizarro or an early Van Gogh.

Who’d had the foresight to plant beech trees in that particular spot and for what purpose? She wondered. Were they put there as a windbreak, or to obscure the ugly cement works across the way? But the hospital was originally built as a workhouse, and it was unlikely that anyone had been considering the sensitivity of its inhabitants. Hopefully, the residents in the new houses appreciated the trees. They would have to go a long way to find anything quite so resplendent.

Once home, she sat down with a coffee. The news was all doom and gloom. She didn’t want to become a doomster. That was what climate change deniers had taken to calling climate activists these days, to try to minimize the seriousness of the problem, and make people think there was nothing they could do. It was important to stay optimistic. She’d go for a walk in the afternoon, up to the crossroads to sit on her bench. That would do the trick.

She’d first started calling it her bench  during Covid. It was in the early days when the population was being fed all sorts of misinformation about the virus. The bench was just past the crossroads in the middle of nowhere, miles from the nearest town. After a mile uphill it was always a relief to have a sit down, until that day when she’d been unceremoniously turfed off it by an over-fastidious policeman in a patrol car, who was adamant that the virus could last up to seventy-two hours on a hard surface. Ever since then it had served as a reminder of just where a lack of scientific knowledge got us.

Kate plonked herself down on the bench. Sitting at 1,000 feet above sea level, looking across a beautiful valley, gave her a different perspective on life. What was needed was a sea change in society, she thought, like the one that happened in the 60s, when Harold Wilson enacted Macmillan’s ‘winds of change’ speech, which he’d made to highlight  the end of the British Empire, or the sea change in Europe in 1989, made famous by the Scorpions’ song, when the Berlin Wall came down, heralding the end of the Cold War and the demise of the Soviet Union. 

But which way would the winds blow this time? These climate change deniers and minimisers couldn’t keep ignoring the scientific evidence, or the evidence of their own eyes when it was staring them in the face. You only had to look at the forest fires burning in the Amazon, or Australia or California, see the floods and storms increasing in Europe and the Philippines. In Jamaica, Hurricane Melissa was a testament to the danger of rapidly rising temperatures at sea level, that could whip up a colossal tropical storm and wreak devastation in minutes.

Thankfully, she wasn’t the only one who thought so. A host of Indigenous leaders, scientists, environmental activists, and forest defenders, along with representatives from 195 countries from around the world, had gathered together in Brazil to discuss how to preserve the planet. They weren’t giving up.

As she walked back home, the sun was just setting. The sky was streaked in pink and white clouds and there was a rosy glow spreading across the valley. And in the West, there was a golden globe, as the sun disappeared behind the horizon. The colours reminded her of the beech trees she’d seen in the morning. 

About the author

Jenny Palmer writes short stories, poetry, memoir and family history. Her collections 'Keepsake and Other Stories.' 2018, and 'Butterflies and Other Stories,' 2024, were published by Bridge House, and are on Amazon. 'Witches, Quakers and Nonconformists,' 2022, is sold at the Pendle Heritage Centre, Barrowford. 

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)

Mind Maps by Jenny Palmer, a half of Wainwright's

 

‘I’ve found the perfect walk for us,’ Celia said. ‘It’s a village circular. And it’s only three miles long. I’ve downloaded the relevant section of the ordnance survey map from the internet. We’ll be fine so long as we stick to the instructions in the guide. If you can read out the guide notes, I’ll follow them on the map. What can possibly go wrong?’

This new venture was Celia’s idea. She’d recently read an article in the newspaper which claimed that being organized, active and helpful not only made you a better person, but it also helped you to live longer.

 Monica was sceptical about the theory.

‘How could it work?” she said. ‘Surely, physical health is more important. I wonder how much research they did.’

‘That’s such a typical response from someone of your disposition,’ said Celia.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ asked Monica.

‘Well, you know: moody, anxious.’

‘I’m not moody,’ said Monica. ‘I’m realistic, that’s all.

 Celia and Monica had met some years before in a walking group, but recently when younger, more agile members had joined, they had been finding it harder and harder to keep up. Gone were the day of walking seven or eight miles. These days they were lucky to manage five.

‘So which way do we go?’ said Celia.

Turn right after the pub and follow the road until you come to the waymarker on the left. Continue along the road until you come to a fingerpost on your right. Then go over a small bridge and through a kissing gate. and continue along the fence line. Monica read

‘What’s a waymarker or a fingerpost?’ Monica asked. ‘And who wrote this guide, anyway? Why don’t they just say signposts? Trying to follow these instructions is doing my head in. It’s taking all the pleasure out of the walk.’

‘Don’t worry about them, then,’ said Celia, undeterred. ‘I’m sure we’ll find the footpath in the end. How hard can it be?’

They continued up the road for some time without deviating. It was a narrow country road. The hedges on both sides had grown so high over the summer that you couldn’t see over the top of them. Their conversation had slowed to a minimum.

‘Not much of a view,’ said Monica. ‘Come on, admit it. We are lost.’

 ‘We are not lost, I assure you,’ said Celia. ‘How can we get lost? So long as we stay on the road, we can’t go far wrong.’

‘Well, we are not on the footpath for one thing and there’s nothing to look at. To my mind, half the pleasure is looking at the views.’

‘I’ll tell you one thing,’ said Celia. ‘It’s a whole lot easier being led than doing the leading. Now I really appreciate the work our walk leaders put in. They recce every walk beforehand, just so we can follow behind and complain if they go wrong.’

‘Well, they are not here now,’ said Monica. ‘I think we should retrace our steps and go back to the pub.’

 ‘That’s just boring,’ said Celia. ‘Where’s your sense of adventure? I’ve got a better idea. Let’s take a short cut through the fields.’

 ‘Are you mad?’ said Monica. ‘That’s asking for trouble.’

 But before she knew it, Celia had taken off into the fields.

‘Just follow me,’ she shouted back. ‘I’ll soon get us onto the right path.’

By now Celia was ploughing along a path which looked as if it hadn’t been used in years. It was waist high in thistles and nettles. And against her better judgment, Monica found herself doggedly following behind. At the far end of the path there was a five-barred gate with no sign of a stile anywhere in sight. Celia was clambering over the gate, which was so rickety it looked like it might collapse at any moment.

‘I’ll leave it to you to explain to the farmer that we’ve broken his gate,’ Monica shouted.

 ‘Oh. Don’t be so negative,’ said Celia.

‘I don’t suppose you’ve even seen that herd of cattle there in the next field,’ Monica responded.

‘Don’t mind them. They haven’t got any calves, and we haven’t got a dog. They’ll leave us alone,’ said Celia.

‘Okay. This is as far as I go,’ said Monica. ‘I’ll see you back at the pub.’                                

‘So, what happened?’ Monica asked when Celia finally arrived back at the pub.

‘Well, you never said anything about there being a bull in the field, did you? It made a beeline for me and the rest of the herd followed in pursuit. I had to make a run for it and just managed to reach the wall in time, but my blood pressure had shot up and I collapsed. When I came to, there was a farmer shooing the cattle away and pointing to the Beware the Bull sign.’

‘You were lucky he was there. You could have been killed,’ said Monica. ‘I thought we were trying to prolong our lives, not shorten them. Didn’t that article say something about being organized and helpful, as well as active?’

‘You’re right,’ Celia conceded. ‘It’s down to you to sort out the next walk.’ 

 

About the author

   

Jenny Palmer writes short stories, poetry, memoir and family history. Her collections Keepsake and Other Stories' 2018, and 'Butterflies and Other Stories' 2024, were published by Bridge House, and are on Amazon. Witches, Quakers and Nonconformists, 2022, is sold at the Pendle Heritage Centre, Barrowford. 

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)