12th July 2010

It was drizzling the last time I wrote, and, true to form, it’s drizzling again today. That said, in between the two soggy bookends, we’ve basked in glorious sunshine and sweltered in 30°C heat. For the first time since moving to Willow Bank, the pool has proved its worth. There’s nothing quite like slipping into cool water after dragging yourself around in the oppressive heat like a wilted Eskimo in search of an iceberg.

More than once this week, I’ve found myself drifting off atop an inflatable lilo, gently bobbing about, eyes closed, thinking, “this is the life”, just before nearly rolling off headfirst into the deep end. On another aquatic note, thanks to the fact that we’re not on a water meter (and I intend to keep it that way), the garden and vegetable patch have been generously pampered every evening with a refreshing spray. The result? Fruit, flowers, and vegetables that could grace the front cover of Gardeners’ World.

On a non-garden front, hats off to Spain for a well-deserved World Cup win. England, as usual, did not exactly cover themselves in glory, but at least we now know who to support when the chips are down, literally anyone else.

Meanwhile, I’ve completed a mammoth painting project, and Nan’s house is now resplendent in a fetching ‘Cottage Stone’ shade. It took me three sunny, dry, windless days of wobbling up and down a ladder like an overconfident squirrel. By day three, I had a thumping headache and eyes like boiled onions. Nan, bless her, said watching me was exhausting, and would regularly retreat indoors to sit in front of the air-con unit I bought her, while I roasted outside like a Christmas turkey.

I’m fairly sure that spending 72 hours staring at a bright beige wall only worsened my ongoing eye troubles. A visit to the optician confirmed my suspicions, and I now have two new pairs of glasses on order. All things considered, it probably would’ve been cheaper (and less medically traumatic) to hire a professional. Still, the house looks smashing and is now easily the poshest-looking property on the road. I offered to take Nan back to Harborough, but she declined, likely busy drawing up plans for offering guided tours and charging admission.

In more sombre news, I’ve continued writing the weekly newsletter for Harborough Rugby Club. Last week, sadly, I had to report the passing of two members, one an older stalwart of the club, and the other a tragic loss: a young lad of just 18 who died from an asthma attack while on holiday. I’ll be attending the funeral of the former this afternoon.

Charlotte hasn’t been feeling her best lately and has now been diagnosed with diabetes, likely gestational, we hope, which could complicate the birth of her baby boy. She’s due to go into the hospital next week and may remain there until the big day. The lad himself seems quite lively, judging by the regular alien-like lumps poking out of Charlotte’s bump, usually a foot, occasionally a bum. He’s clearly practising his wrestling moves already.

Charlotte and Suraj have decided to move closer to the grandparents. Charlotte and Lucas visited over the weekend and broke the news. We spent Saturday and Sunday house-hunting between Harborough and the A1. Suraj didn’t join us; he was “busy chopping logs for winter,” though it’s more likely he was dodging the grandparents after giving Lucas a haircut that left him looking like Yul Brynner. I suspect Suraj won’t be picking up the clippers again any time soon, unless he fancies losing more than just a legacy.

Harley is back from Crete, beautifully tanned and, apparently, officially Jamie’s girlfriend again (we’re keeping score with a spreadsheet at this point). She popped round for tea on Friday, all smiles, and looked none the worse for her travels.

Jamie, meanwhile, has enrolled on a management course in Leicester, paid for by work. It’s equivalent to an A-level and should open up a few useful doors. I’ve promised to lend a hand if needed, hopefully not the hand that painted Nan’s house. He’s also dipped a toe into the world of finance, proudly informing me he’s made £1.25 from his Stocks and Shares ISA this month. Look out, Warren Buffett.

Lee stayed with us last weekend. He was a little subdued, understandably, as his father recently suffered a stroke. This weekend, Sarah went up to Nottingham to be with him and joined him on a hospital visit. His stepdad has lost a fair bit of weight, but recovery seems to be underway, slowly but surely.

Sarah herself is now learning to drive. I’ve taken her out a couple of times in Sue’s car, a nerve-wracking experience for both of us, and she’s having proper lessons too. She’s doing well and showing promise. I reckon she’ll be test-ready soon, though I shall miss our slightly tense bonding sessions where I age ten years every time she approaches a roundabout.