16th December 2007

Big news on the family front: Philippa and Paul managed to snag tickets to the Led Zeppelin reunion concert this week, and not just any tickets. Oh no, they ended up right at the front, rubbing shoulders with the stage (and probably a few ageing rockers). Not only did they bag VIP treatment by camping out like true die-hards, but they also got interviewed by the media and featured in several national newspapers. Overnight stardom, though sadly, not accompanied by a record deal.

Meanwhile, back in the realm of the unglamorous, I spent the week hunting for my mobile phone, which had mysteriously vanished last weekend. After days of pacing, patting pockets, and muttering dark things under my breath, I finally discovered it on Saturday, frozen solid into a puddle next to the shed. Yes, frozen. We’d had biblical rain and nightly frosts all week, and there it was, embedded like an artefact from an arctic dig. With a mixture of blind optimism and scientific ignorance, I prised out the battery, plonked it on the radiator, and once dry-ish, slotted it back in. Miraculously, it worked! It’s still a bit foggy on the inside, like it’s trying to recover from a traumatic experience, but all in all, a minor Christmas miracle. I should probably email the manufacturers and suggest they advertise it as “pond-compatible.”

Sue, bless her, finally had a day off school this week, just the one, but it worked wonders. She’s been battling a persistent chesty cough, which she keeps generously sharing with a class of children, who in turn keep giving it back. Like some sort of germ-based game of pass the parcel.

Sarah, meanwhile, is quietly fizzing with Christmas excitement. She’s been sneaking peeks under the tree like a cat hunting out prey, on the lookout for anything addressed to her. On Friday, we left her ‘home alone‘ while Sue and I went to see Zodiac. We didn’t call to check up on her once, which she clearly took as a great honour.

Jamie, not to be outdone in the comedy stakes, decided to drive to visit Nan on Friday. Confidently announcing he “knew the way,” he declined the SatNav, ignored the map, and set off into the wilds. A journey that should’ve taken 1 hour and 15 minutes turned into a 5½ hour odyssey via several unexpected towns and one minor existential crisis. He eventually phoned Charlotte from Mansfield to ask where on earth he was. Nan, bless her, stayed up until he arrived, possibly out of concern, possibly to make sure he was real. At length, the following morning, on the phone, I described the proper route back, and he returned safely and has since expressed no further interest in cartography.

This weekend, I bottled my Sloe Gin in preparation for Thursday’s Annual Sloe Gin and Pickled Onion Competition at the Catholic Club. Early tastings suggest it’s on the tarty side (much like a few of the judges), so I don’t expect to walk away with the trophy. However, my chilli pickled onions are another matter entirely, fiery, punchy, and best eaten last, preferably with medical supervision. I have high hopes.