That’s when it happened.
A searing bolt of pain shot through her lower back and she collapsed to the ground, completely unable to move and with the mobile phone which would have provided a lifeline to would-be rescuers sitting happily on the kitchen table back inside.
Ordinarily, our little cul-de-sac is a hive of activity. If it’s not a courier arriving to drop off someone’s latest online purchases, it’s one of the neighbours walking their dog past our place or another coming home from night shift.
This day, by some weird quirk of fate, there was no movement in the street. And, therefore, nobody to respond to the anguished calls for help from Mrs P until I pulled up the driveway some 40 minutes later.
It was most definitely not a sight or sound I would like to come home to again. All I can say is for once, thank goodness, it wasn’t raining. The thought of her lying there wet, cold and in pain sends a shudder through me.
Anyway. Enough yuck stuff. Onwards and upwards.
What followed over the next 24 hours was a bit of a whirlwind.
In that maelstrom was an ambulance ride, some extremely strong drugs, frowning doctors, numerous nurses and healthcare assistants, even more numerous forms to fill out and, it would be fair to say, an increasingly agitated husband by the end of it all.
Finally, once everything that could be done for her had been done – and they suggested the event is linked to ongoing health issues - I got her home and made her as comfortable as I could while I went about sorting out follow-up investigations and all those other connected things you have to do.
Then I took a deep breath and started the real work - looking after my wife.
Now I’m not a complete prat when it comes to such things but, let’s be honest, I’m a bloke and we have a slightly different view of what’s appropriate in terms of the level and execution of care.
But we got there.
I even managed to give her a bed bath – without getting distracted if you get my drift – and made sure all the required medications were delivered on time and with the appropriate amount of liquid or food to assist in them doing their job properly.
But just as I was thinking I could maybe give this nursing gig a go if my current part-time employment should one day come to an end, I found even greater success in the technology sector.
Now anybody who knows me will tell you I am the world’s worst when it comes to anything technological. I really am. I believe God put 10-year-olds on this planet to sort out tech issues for silly sods like me.
Unfortunately, when it came to hooking up a telly in the bedroom so Mrs P could watch a rerun of some rubbish, er, I mean “programme” where three Australian bachelors selected three bachelorettes, there was no 10-year-old tech genius available.
The not inconsiderable task fell to Yours Truly.
Long story short, I handled it like a pro, if I do say so myself.
I should point out our telly is not one of these new ones where it does everything for you. My granddaughter, aged 6, tells me it’s called a “smart” telly.
We’ve had ours for a hundred years. It runs on steam and used to have a little black box – named Freeview apparently - attached to it which, by some miracle, used to do everything for us.
I’m reliably informed Freeview is no longer available so what we have to do with our old telly if we want to watch anything is something called “casting”, via something called a “dongle”, which in turn receives a signal via “broadband”.
When that was all explained to me a month or so ago I remember first thinking “casting a dongle” sounded like something you could be arrested for and then just drifting away mentally.
By the time I came back, someone else – it may have been a 10-year-old - had sorted it out for us and all I had to do was turn the telly on and press a number on my mobile phone. I think.
Anyway.
Now there’s a problem. Mrs P is confined to bed and I need to get the telly into the bedroom where apparently internet reception is known to be very poor (Who knew? Certainly not me.) and hook it up.
I don’t quite know how I did it but, eventually, I seemed to have enough blue broadband cables strewn across the carpet, plugs and dongles – which turns out to be just a boring round circle thing albeit with an awesome name – stuck into the various sockets on the back of the telly and power sockets close by.
So, then I pushed the switch – so to speak – and wouldn’t you know it, it worked.
The quality of the programme is still rubbish – I think they are starting to run out of good-looking single Australians – but Mrs P is getting some distraction from the pain she’s suffering.
As for me, I’m feeling sufficiently happy with my technological efforts. I’m even considering a career in the industry.
Or at least I was. The first day was all about my successful technological attempts but it was a completely different story the next and Mrs P had to give the Aussie hunks a miss.
I couldn’t find the remote to turn the telly on.
