20th April 2009

This week, the family vanished in all directions like confetti in a gust of wind.

Sue headed off to the West Country to stay with her sister, Philippa. I, exercising what I believed to be sound judgement, consulted the weather forecast and was reassured (foolishly) that the Midlands would be basking in glorious sunshine while the rest of the country drowned in gloom. With smug self-assurance, I opted to stay put in Leicestershire.

Monday started well, true to forecast, it was fine and sunny, so I set off for a gentle ramble through Gumley Woods. All was calm, peaceful and bucolic until I managed to strain my knee. Repeatedly walking along hills that all sloped the same way isn’t ideal for an already dodgy cruciate ligament. From that moment on, the week spiralled downhill, much like me on those very slopes.

Tuesday to Friday brought the sort of weather that would depress a duck: cold, grey, and relentlessly wet. I became something of a housebound hermit. On the plus side, I finally catalogued our entire DVD collection, 326 films! (Though I fear Sue may have bought duplicates of Mamma Mia! to sabotage me.)

Meanwhile, Sue was enjoying splendid weather in the West Country. Sunshine, warmth, and not a single complaint about rain. Typical.

With her mum away, Sarah seized the opportunity to visit Charlotte in Newark for some much-needed GCSE revision. Or so she claimed. She returned on Sunday with a suspicious glow. Suntan or bronzer? The jury’s out.

Jamie, armed with his new TomTom Satnav, ventured to Bournemouth with two mates to celebrate his birthday. When he returned to Willow Bank, he offered the usual vague teenage debrief: “Yeah, it was alright.” From what little I pried out of him, the hotel was decent and, would you believe it, he too was suntanned! There seems to have been a conspiracy of sunshine targeting everyone but me.

Come Sunday, the family reconvened, and we celebrated Jamie’s 20th birthday with cake. I won’t pretend the last two decades have been without drama; Jamie has made sure of that. There have been soaring highs and dramatic, often self-inflicted lows. Many’s the time I feared he wouldn’t make it out of his teens in one piece, but here we are, 20 and counting. I used to joke he’d be the death of me by the time I hit 50. I’m relieved to admit I was wrong. Here’s to the next 50, hopefully with less drama and more sunscreen.

Now I’m gearing up for a trip to Italy with Roger, flying out on Thursday with Ryanair (pray for legroom). We’re off to visit Joan and Phil for a bit of Italian rambling, earthquakes permitting.