March 1st 2009

Sarah’s current boyfriend, Matt, an airman in the RAF (precise location: unknown, possibly classified or just never mentioned), came to visit over the weekend. He seemed like a decent chap: firm handshake, polite chat, said all the right things. She met him on our last family holiday, though Sue and I were blissfully unaware of any blossoming romance at the time. Other than mealtimes, we didn’t see much of him; he was mostly being paraded around Harborough to impress Sarah’s friends.

Sarah’s bedroom continues to resemble a minor war zone, but we’ve struck a peace deal of sorts: one Cadbury’s Creme Egg a day in exchange for basic tidiness. So far, it’s working; sugar-based bribery is still the most effective motivational tool known to parenting. Her GCSE preparation seems to be going well. I had a look over some of her PE essays, and they weren’t bad at all, considering it’s her weakest subject. Bizarrely, much of the content matches what I did during my PE teacher training. Makes me wonder what on earth they do at A-level now, perhaps advanced yoga and kung fu with added PowerPoint?

Sue is back at work and, touch wood, seems to be on the mend. She’s still got a tickly cough now and then, but nothing serious. Some old friends popped by from Yorkshire; they’d been in Harborough for the day and dropped in unannounced, which made for a good gossip and catch-up session. Sue has also thrown herself into family tree research, speaking to Stanley and firing off emails to long-lost relatives. Hopefully, it all ends up neatly entered into the ancestry software I bought her for Christmas, rather than just scribbled on the backs of envelopes.

Jamie is still working, though the economic downturn is nibbling away at his hours, now finishing at 4 pm, and soon down to a four-day week. He repaired his mini motorbike recently and now spends his free time tearing up and down the drive like a one-man Grand Prix. The neighbours, I suspect, are less than thrilled. On the plus side, he seems to have lost interest in his PlayStation 3, which makes the house feel oddly quieter. With his friend Tansley now living in a flat in Harborough and Sarah constantly out with friends, the place is often surprisingly peaceful.

In cheerier news, Sue’s sister’s husband, Paul, has finally landed a permanent job with the Post Office in Plymouth, a rare win in the current climate.

Not much word from the Newark side of the family, though all reports suggest they’re alive, well, and employed. Charlotte may be affected by the Vodafone redundancies, not sure yet, but she did send Sarah a lovely photo of Lucas sitting in a cage (as you do), which now graces one of my study computer desktops. She and Lucas came to stay this weekend while Suraj hosted a poker night at theirs. From the sounds of it, it was more chips than childcare there.

As for me, I’m still refereeing, just about, though I pulled my hamstring again on Saturday, and this time it properly hurts. Even so, in my quest to remain upright and vaguely fit, I’m still cycling the Leicestershire countryside most mornings. It’s amazing what and who you stumble across when pedalling off-road in the middle of nowhere. I enjoy it immensely.

Last weekend I organised a walk to a local beer festival in Clipston with a few mates. On the way, we detoured to explore a Motte and Bailey castle near Sibbertoft, spotted it on an Ordnance Survey map and couldn’t resist. Built in the late 11th or early 12th century, it’s now little more than a lump under some brambles and a haven for pheasants. We bumped into a couple of gamekeepers and the landowner’s son, all very chatty, but none of them had a clue about the castle’s history. Possibly used for collecting tolls between the Welland and Avon rivers… or maybe just for keeping sheep dry.

The beer festival, however, was a roaring success. I can heartily recommend the “Croak and Stagger” ale from the Frog Island brewery lived up to its name in every way.

Later in the week, curiosity got the better of me, and I tried to dig up more on Sibbertoft Castle. Not much out there, sadly. So, naturally, I wrote to Time Team and suggested they take a look, even volunteered to wield a trowel myself. To my surprise, they replied saying they’re interested and may get back to me after doing some research. Promising!

Still, just in case Tony Robinson doesn’t come calling, I’ve hedged my bets and planted 70 rows of potatoes. If I’m not digging up Saxon treasure, I’ll be digging up Maris Piper.