7th January 2010

Like many people, I couldn’t wait to see the back of 2009. Though Sue and I are now officially retired and collecting our teacher pensions, any joy is tinged with apprehension as we brace ourselves for the likely arrival of a new government in spring, and with it, the dreaded tinkering with pensions and benefits. It seems retirement is less about slippers and more about spreadsheets and speculation.

Weather-wise, the summer of 2009 was a thorough disappointment, all drizzle and no dazzle. But at least the year ended on a suitably British note: cold, crisp, and with just enough snow to make the elderly nervous and the children euphoric.

Unfortunately, the season wasn’t without sadness. Aunty Anne passed away the week before Christmas. She was over 90 and had been in a care home for the past few years, slowly slipping away from us, losing recognition of family and friends. I had a particular fondness for Anne, having seen more of her than many other relatives on my father’s side. She lived in one of those quaint Yorkshire terraces that regularly popped up in Last of the Summer Wine. As a child, I roamed the very lanes and hills made famous by Compo and Foggy, though, to my regret, I never spotted either.

I had planned to take Nan to the funeral, and travelled to Thurcroft on the Monday. But that night brought heavy snow, over 30cm of it,  and a weather warning urging us not to travel. The entire region was snowed under, so the funeral was postponed for a couple of weeks… or so we were told. Fearing more snow, I decided to make the treacherous journey home. What’s normally an hour’s drive took four and a half hours, and more snow began to fall as I arrived back at Willow Bank. Irritatingly, we later heard the funeral had, in fact, gone ahead that very day. Nan attended with another relative, while I stayed put and avoided what looked to be a motorway ice rink.

As ever, Christmas was a whirlwind of chaos and crackers. Everyone arrived at Willow Bank on the 23rd, which meant we could enjoy our traditional Christmas Eve ten-pin bowling in Kettering without the usual mad rush. Nan had travelled down earlier to Harborough and stayed home with Sue (still recovering from her operation), leaving the rest of us to cause mild havoc at the bowling alley. I usually have to book months ahead, but this year, thanks to the recession, half the lanes sat empty. Not that Lucas noticed, he was a live wire throughout, only slowing down as the clock nudged midnight. I remember when I used to have that much energy. I think it lasted until about 1983.

Two bowling moments worth recording:

1. A group of lively young ladies were playing in the lane beside us. One, clearly not well-versed in the laws of physics, let go of her ball on the backswing. What followed was pure slapstick: friends diving out of the way as her bowling ball performed a perfect imitation of a bouncing bomb. I burst out crying with laughter. The poor girl looked utterly horrified, which of course only made it funnier.

2. Jamie, needing a strike and focusing like a pro, was sabotaged by Charlotte, who crept behind him and shouted his name just as he released the ball. Startled, Jamie flailed and spun his way down the lane in pursuit of the ball. Both he and the ball landed in the gutter, a double fail, and thoroughly amusing.

Lucas fell asleep on the drive home, and with him safely tucked up in bed, we arranged the presents around the tree and hoped for a reasonable wake-up time.

Christmas Day went exactly to script.
At dawn, we heard the excited squeals from Lucas as he discovered the overflowing pillowcase at the foot of his bed. We all joined him as he trotted downstairs to marvel at the present mountain under the tree. After a brief return to bed (where Lucas politely pretended to sleep), we regrouped for breakfast and the traditional parcel-passing ceremony, me reading labels, Lucas acting as courier until the novelty wore off and he hunkered down to unwrap his haul.

Lunch was superb. Nan brought a turkey crown from her local butcher in Thurcroft, delicious and perfectly cooked. In the afternoon, while others read instructions or played with new gadgets, I retreated to the garage and fashioned a sledge for Lucas out of scrap wood and a curtain rail. He gave it an enthusiastic trial until his third run down the drive, when he slipped, landed face-first, and flattened his nose. A minor hiccup in an otherwise proud moment of engineering.

TV in the evening: Doctor Who (rubbish) and Top Gear (excellent).

Boxing Day:
We took a chilly walk in Salcey Forest, navigating icy paths to the tree-top walkway. Nan bravely clung to my arm, unaware that I was barely staying upright myself. The younger lot pelted each other with snowballs, and we ended the adventure in the café with mugs of hot chocolate topped with mini marshmallows. Bliss. Plans were made to return in the summer, preferably when the ground wasn’t trying to kill us.

The following day:
It was time for another family tradition: greyhound racing in Peterborough. Jamie’s girlfriend, Harley, joined us. I failed to repeat last year’s betting success, but Sarah and Harley had a moment of glory with a winning “Trio”; their triumphant squeals nearly brought the entire stadium to a halt. £64 each and worth every decibel.

Still not tired of festive outings, I took Nan and Lucas by train to Leicester’s New Walk Museum to see the dinosaur exhibit. Though the creatures were being cleaned, Lucas was captivated by their sheer size and bombarded me with questions. He left with a toy dinosaur from the shop and a head full of prehistoric facts. Meanwhile, the others in the family were out battling the sales again.

Suraj headed home in the evening to tend to the cats (whose temporary carers were off on their holiday), while Charlotte and Lucas stayed another day before heading home. Nan stayed until after New Year’s before I drove her back to Yorkshire, via Newark, to deliver the now-tested-and-approved sledge. Handily, it snowed again, and the sledge earned its keep.

Later that week, I went for a snowy walk around Pitsford Reservoir with Roger Woolnough. We encountered only one other couple, a stark contrast to the usual bustle. Roger, incidentally, had only left the house twice during Christmas: once for a festive pub lunch (during which he broke a tooth) and once to have said tooth removed. I didn’t ask whether the Tooth Fairy paid up.

Nan and I also visited David and Genya at the Unit in Rotherham. Their absence over Christmas was explained: their van had been vandalised by some delightful youths throwing bricks from a bridge as they drove underneath. David caught them, but they denied everything, and the police couldn’t act without witnesses. He was without transport for a while, but is now mobile again, and considering another trip to Bulgaria in February. I imagine it’ll be frosty in more ways than one.

And finally… a Christmas gift to remember:
On Christmas Day, Charlotte and Suraj shared the wonderful news that we’re to be grandparents again. It came as less of a shock than last time (we’ve had a bit of practice by now), and August promises to be another very exciting month.

So here’s to 2010 — may it be kinder, warmer, and less prone to economic collapse.
My personal New Year’s wish: Shoot all bankers, MPs, and OFSTED inspectors. But in a nice, metaphorical, cartoon sort of way.