We wound ourselves up with jokes about going to Mordor (the sky obligingly clouded over and it started to rain) but when we actually arrived at the Duchess of Kent Hospital in Catterick everything was very pleasant and unmilitary and the very nice psychiatrist spent an hour and a half with Joe and concluded by telling him that he'd write a letter to his (Joe's) C.O. recommending he be discharged.
So that was it? Apparently so.
I came away feeling rather flat.
But, of course, it's wonderful. Joe can now get on with the rest of his life....
Ailz went to be tested this morning to see whether she's fit to hold a driving licence.
It was a day rather like yesterday- dread in contemplation, not half so bad as it turned out.
We rode the motorways real early, hoping to miss the rush hour traffic. We didn't. Hey, there's got to be a better way of running an economy than this daily sucking in and spewing out of cars by our big cities.
The test was at Wrightington. Ailz spent nine months there as a small child back in the day when it was an isolation hospital. (She had T.B.)
The tests were fun. She sat in a simulated Alfa Romeo and put her foot down hard and fast whenever the light flashed. Then she went for an hour long drive with an instructor through the back streets of Wigan.
Meanwhile I sat on a hard chair in the waiting room reading a badly-written thesis on Bob Dylan and Leonard Cohen. This guy can't construct grammatical sentences, nor can he proof-read and yet he's a prof and he's in print; how are such things possible?
Ailz did fine. No worries. Her licence should be in the post.
This week, next week, sometime......
We came home and the door fell off the freezer. Omygodomygodomygod! Nevertheless, remembering my success with the bookcase, I laid myself down on on the kitchen floor in puddles of ice water and screwed it on again.