21st February 2010

The original opening paragraph, a perfectly reasoned and articulate tirade on the nonsense of global warming, has, regrettably, been deleted. You see, the new me no longer whinges about tax hikes, council rates, carbon offsets, or anything else likely to raise the blood pressure. I absolutely will not mention the fact that temperatures have hovered around zero (or below) for weeks now, nor will I dwell on the snowdrift that has taken up permanent residence on our driveway since before Christmas. I certainly won’t complain that it’s still snowing, or that my once-proud log pile is now a sad memory. I am not, repeat not, annoyed. There must be a silver lining somewhere. It’s just… not in my pocket.

Sue, meanwhile, has embraced half-term with a level of household cleanliness not seen since the NHS declared war on MRSA. With no schoolwork to distract her, she’s been whizzing around the place like a one-woman hygiene task force. On Monday, she drove up to Newark for lunch with Charlotte and Lucas, collecting Sarah en route from Cottesbrook, where she’d been staying with Lee’s parents. From the giggling and conspicuous lack of invitation, I deduced it was a girls-only outing. So I phoned Roger Woolnough to remind him that he owed me lunch, and we duly met in Rothwell for a pub meal. There was steak. There was ale. There was rugby talk. Frankly, it was just as well I’d been excluded from the girly chatter.

Later in the week, Charlotte was laid low with something nasty and spent a day in bed. Just as she began to feel better, the snow took a turn for the theatrical and blocked all the roads into her village, trapping her in a post-viral whiteout.

Jamie, ever consistent, still smells like the inside of a mechanic’s sock drawer when he comes home from work, but the motion-sensitive Freesia squirter is holding the line. On Wednesday, with Harborough allegedly “cut off from the rest of the world” (thank you, HFM), Jamie rang me from a lay-by at 6 pm. His windscreen wiper fuse had blown, along with his electric windows. He couldn’t see a thing. He asked if I could rescue him, but I, heroically, explained that I was marooned in Harborough by the snow.

Ten minutes later, he rang again, having swapped his heater fuse for the wiper fuse, restoring visibility. He asked me to fetch new fuses. I was quietly ‘chuffed’ that he’d worked it out himself. Less chuffed to have to drive to Halfords in conditions resembling an Antarctic expedition. HFM hadn’t been exaggerating; the roads were treacherous. I should’ve walked, or at least worn crampons. Still, I made it there and back unscathed, and Jamie finally got home at 8.45 pm, exhausted but quietly proud. He was back out at 5.30 pm the next morning. Youth, eh?

Lee arrived on Thursday for a short stay. That evening, Sue and I took Lee and Sarah to see The Lovely Bones at the cinema in Kettering, a moving film about a 14-year-old girl murdered in 1970s Pennsylvania. We drove through a blizzard to get there, which set the mood nicely. Mercifully, the snow had eased by the time the film ended, and the return trip was blessedly uneventful. Lee headed home Saturday morning, presumably thawed out.

Earlier in the week, I wandered across the road to investigate a towering pile of timber in the neighbouring field. The chap who owns it runs a Cruck house business from a small workshop there. I asked if he wanted the wood, and he said they were moving premises next week, and I could have it. Chainsaw in hand, I returned after lunch, only for the weather to stage a dramatic re-entry. Within half an hour of log-slicing, I was losing the battle; the blizzard was burying the logs faster than I could cut them. The scene now resembles a miniature ski resort, complete with my frozen ambitions somewhere underneath.

With outdoor pursuits off the menu, I turned to the planning of our April jaunt to Asia. We’re flying into Shanghai, so I thought I’d check the distance from the airport to our hotel. Easy, I thought. Except that Shanghai has two international airports. After a bit of digital detective work, I confirmed that Virgin flies into Pudong. Great. Now, to locate our hotel, confusingly, there are six Crowne Plazas in Shanghai. Several clicks and a minor existential crisis later, I found ours. Then came the matter of the cruise, where exactly was the ship docking? More sleuthing, more tabs open, and I think I’ve got it. Possibly.

At the weekend, I sent off our passports to the Chinese Embassy in London to get our visas. On Monday, they rang to say we wouldn’t be seeing our passports again until March due to the Chinese New Year. This is mildly problematic as I’m supposed to go to Bulgaria next month. Fingers crossed. The visas cost £230. Apparently, that’s the going rate for bureaucracy. At least we don’t need visas for Japan or South Korea. Still, I couldn’t help thinking, didn’t we give Hong Kong back?

With all junior club matches cancelled due to the weather, I joined friends for a trip to Welford Road to watch the Tigers play Gloucester. The train from Harborough was packed; some misguided soul had lobbed a brick through the previous train driver’s window, so its passengers had been added to ours. We were further delayed by trespassers on the line. But we got there in the end, and it was worth it, a thrilling match, made all the better by the presence of some Gloucester fans within earshot of my best (and possibly least appropriate) commentary. I made what may have been the finest joke of my life, but alas, it is not printable.

On the way back, the trains were cancelled due to a derailment near the Langtons. A replacement bus eventually materialised, and we weren’t too badly delayed getting home. All in all, a proper British Saturday: snow, delays, rugby, and a return journey of uncertain legality.