8th May 2011

Monday began with Lee attempting a surprise visit to Sarah. Unfortunately, as is so often the case with unannounced appearances, she was out, in this case, at Charlotte’s. Lee dutifully diverted there, whisked her out for a meal, and left later that evening.

On Tuesday, Jamie returned from a two-week holiday. At about 7 p.m., I received a phone call: his fire alarm was going off and wouldn’t stop. Off I went, only to pull over by Sainsbury’s to let two fire engines hurtle past. I had a sneaking suspicion I knew where they were going.

Sure enough, Jamie’s apartment block was swarming with residents peering skywards, no doubt hoping for a glimpse of flames. The fire brigade was unwinding hoses like it was Bonfire Night. I couldn’t see Jamie, but having a spare set of keys, I headed upstairs, passing several firefighters coming down.

Inside, I found Jamie staring at his fire alarm, which now dangled from the ceiling like a badly hung Christmas bauble. The alarm had gone off while he was in the shower. Instead of evacuating, he’d phoned me. Mere minutes later, two firefighters had burst into his flat… while he was still stark naked. How the alarm came to be swinging by its wires remains a mystery I’m in no hurry to solve. I made a token effort to shove it back into place, failed, and left it dangling. Jamie, unfazed by all this, rang a friend and arranged to go out for the evening.

As I drove home, the same fire engines passed me again, this time cruising back to base at a far more leisurely pace.

Wednesday saw Sue lunching with Lynn Brown and Sarah returning to Robert Smyth School. I watered the allotments in the morning, then, while en route to the tip with grass cuttings, encountered Roger Woolnough in the driveway. He was returning the scarifier he’d borrowed a week earlier. Like last year’s return, it was broken, the moss-ripping tynes had vanished, presumably during an ill-fated encounter with concrete. Roger had “no idea” how it happened, but I bet his drive was spotless. I took the corpse of the scarifier to the dump. Roger mentioned he was collecting Fran from the station later; she was staying for ten days.

On Thursday, Sue worked at Church Langton Primary while I had a doctor’s appointment for my ultrasound results. Unfortunately, while putting on socks, I somehow managed to crunch my lower back, resulting in excruciating pain. Nevertheless, I ferried Sarah to school, saw the doctor (scan clear), and was prescribed co-codamol. Now, another scan is on the cards.

The weekend saw Sarah braving Thorpe Park with Jamie, Harley, and a friend. They returned drenched from the log flume but smiling.

Friday, Sue worked again at Church Langton, while Sarah, Charlotte, and the boys visited the farm park. I attended the Rugby Club Annual Dinner while the rest of the family (plus children) gathered at Willow Bank for a Chinese takeaway. Poor Suraj missed out, stuck counting ballot papers from the local elections. My back still hurts, but with the medicinal aid of local ale, I even managed the walk home.

Saturday, Sarah worked a full day at Savers. Sue shopped in town, Charlotte dropped by briefly, and I limped to the Club to watch Leicestershire v Essex. Standing aggravated my back, so I didn’t linger long after the game. That evening, we puzzled over the TV show, Britain’s Got Talent.

The producers seem to have missed the clue in the title. One of the acts was a French dancer, undeniably talented, but last I checked, Paris was not in Britain. He even needed an interpreter! If France can’t muster enough talent for its own TV show, why are we lending them ours? Let us not forget: we helped them in two world wars, and they repaid us by selling Exocet missiles to the Argentinians, sank a Greenpeace ship, and DeGaul vetoed our entry into Europe. Very French. That’s me done with the programme.

By Sunday, rain had set in, glorious news for the garden, especially as my back means I can’t lift a watering can. The forecast promises warm showers all week, perfect for the allotment.