21st August 2009

The day I last put pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard), Aunty Hilda slipped quietly from this world. Having said her goodbyes to her sisters, she left us that night to reunite with her beloved Ted, no doubt with a gentle sigh and a raised eyebrow at the state of the world.

Charlotte, Sarah and I accompanied Nan to the funeral. It was lovely to see Aunty Edna again; she and Aunty Anne are now the last of that doughty Palmer generation, still flying the family flag. Sue couldn’t come, as she was holding the fort (or rather, the windows) while the fitters got to work, and Jamie was off learning how to operate a forklift truck.

After the service, there was a small buffet at a local pub; curiously, no one ever says, “What this sombre day needs is a pork pie and some crinkle cut crisps,” but it always seems to happen.

At the pub, I bumped into a school friend I hadn’t seen in over 35 years. He seemed eager to unburden himself of a long-held secret, though I was rather hoping it wouldn’t be about me. He asked if I did any voluntary work now I’m retired, and looked rather crestfallen when I said no (a reaction I usually reserve for hawkers). Then came the confession: he’d been illiterate until just a few years ago, when he bravely joined a reading course run by volunteers. Since then, he’s flourished, now even teaching computer literacy to others.

He encouraged me to do the same, and I nodded vaguely, hoping my face wouldn’t betray the internal scream of “Nooo!” I admire his courage, of course, but after 35 years of spreadsheets and sticky notes, I prefer my mental gymnastics to involve cryptic crosswords and remembering where I put my glasses. Still, it was touching. He wasn’t blaming me for his struggles; I think he was simply releasing the last of his burdens. Good on yer, mate.

We rounded off the day with dinner at a pub in Firbeck, hoping to have their famous “meal on a hot brick”, a culinary delight we remembered from last year. Sadly, the bricks must’ve been repossessed during the credit crunch, as they’d taken it off the menu. We settled for food served on normal, boring plates.

Three days before the windows arrived, the loft insulation team turned up and, shock horror, did an excellent job! On a blisteringly hot day, they braved the attic sauna and were both careful and thorough. The house will now feel warmer in winter and cooler in summer, although at present, the spiders appear to be the main beneficiaries.

The window fitters, from Birmingham (no insult intended, I like canals and curries), were equally impressive. Two teams appeared on day two and zipped through all 20 windows. I rewarded them each with a bottle of lager, because I’ve heard that’s what Brummies live on. Previously, I’d given a bottle of champagne to a builder from Rutland, but he was dating the daughter of the Duke of Burleigh, so perhaps his standards were higher.

The new windows are crystal clear. So clear, I’ve been watching a spider in the lounge window spinning what appears to be a prototype eco-wind farm. Judging by the fly population caught in its gossamer grid, it’s more successful than the one near Market Harborough.

Speaking of which, Harborough’s roads are currently in bits. The gas board has taken it upon themselves to dig up every street, driveway and footpath to replace the metal gas pipes with shiny yellow ones. They dug a massive hole in our drive, filled it in for no reason, then dug another one behind the house. A chap turned up the next day, looked baffled, informed us that our pipes were already plastic, and promptly filled them back in. I’ve decided not to get involved; it’s a mystery best left buried.

Meanwhile, my brother in Bulgaria has gone quiet. He had sent a few pictures (unpublished here, it’s my blog, not his gallery), but after I tipped him off about a meteor shower, he and Genya lay out sunbeds in the garden to watch it. They reported the light show was impressive, but the chorus of howling jackals stole the show, especially when said jackals appeared in the neighbouring field. Genya, sensibly, fled indoors with the only torch. David, less sensibly, was left barefoot and flip-flopless to fend off predators. I’ve not heard from them since. Either Genya survived and David’s been eaten, or David’s typing from a tree while Genya’s been lowered into a jackal pit.

Closer to home, not all is well. Poor Charlotte has come down with swine flu and is feeling rough. Despite this, they’re planning to drive over for Sue’s birthday and are still set on flying to the Caribbean in two weeks. She’s nearly 27 now, a tough old bird, so I’m sure she’ll bounce back in time to sip rum under a palm tree.

Nan, meanwhile, is in fine fettle. Still glued to the cricket and keeping the hairdresser in business. She’s decided her shed is too small and wants a bigger one, though she hasn’t much to put in it, and the neighbours don’t even have sheds to engage in one-upmanship. Another of life’s puzzles that I no longer feel the need to solve.

Harking back to the recent funeral discussion, in a moment of madness, I volunteered to be the new Membership Secretary at the Rugby Club. I now spend my days updating databases, creating forms, and chasing people for money. Remind me why I retired?

To end on a high: Sarah and I had a glorious day kayaking on the canal. We foraged the biggest, juiciest blackberries I’ve ever tasted, plucked from bushes hanging temptingly over the water. The sun was warm, the tide was out (or whatever the canal equivalent is), and the boats were charmingly narrow. By the time we got home, we were both snoring on the sofa within minutes.