16th July 2011

The lack of rain this summer has left me with no plausible excuse not to tackle the long list of jobs I conveniently “postponed” in spring, the ones that hover about like guilt-ridden ghosts prodding my conscience. It’s a bit like those school days when it would have been far wiser to say “No”, but, for some unfathomable reason, I said “Yes”, and the work piled up until I had no option but to get on with it.

The trouble with retirement is that saying “Yes” isn’t the real problem; it’s remembering what I’ve said “Yes” to. And that becomes increasingly difficult with each passing year.

Speaking of school, last week Richard Blewitt, the music teacher, invited me to an evening performance of Oliver. Sue and Sarah came along too. I don’t think the new Headteacher was expecting me, he looked as if he’d seen Ofsted at the back of the hall. Still, his end-of-show speech was surprisingly witty; a side I never saw during the year I helped induct him. The production itself was a joy, the children sang beautifully, and a few showed remarkable talent. And, of course, we pensioners never say no to a free night’s entertainment.

Tending two allotments and a garden has been like running a marathon where the organisers have, for their own amusement, added random hurdles. Hedge cutting, weeding, mowing, planting, pruning, watering, and harvesting, as soon as one job’s done, another pops up, waving a little flag and demanding urgent attention.

Yesterday’s family BBQ didn’t quite go to plan. Jamie and Harley bailed late on, and Lee and Sarah decided to dine out before heading to a midnight showing of Harry Potter. This left us with enough leftover meat to feed a rugby team.

While I was reducing the sausages to charcoal, I noticed the plum tree above me groaning under the weight of ripe fruit. Lucas and I filled three buckets in record time, with only occasional interruptions to turn the burgers. He discovered a love of plums, went home with a bucketful, and his parents left with a large tub of barbecued “goodies”.

At 10 p.m., I went to the Rugby Club to collect the week’s takings, as Gary, the bar steward, was off to Formentera the next morning and had asked me to bank them (see: my ongoing inability to say no). Charlotte and Harley were working the bar for Samantha Brown’s 21st. Frank, Robin, and Jeremy were there too, but I resisted old temptations, no beer, no bad dancing with Jeremy’s wife, Lynne. My ankle was sore from digging, the music was deafening, and I left quietly at 11.45 p.m. with a bag of cash.

For over a month, I’d been promising Lucas a treehouse. Fate had other ideas until Monday, when I cycled past a man loading wood into his car. I offered to “save him the trouble” and take it away. Two hours later, I returned to find a disassembled shed in his garden. Jamie helped me haul it back, and I decided it was perfect treehouse material.

The next day, I built the sections; the day after that, I took them to Rothwell. My plan was to put up the base platform and build the house later. Naturally, Suraj turned up and we ended up finishing the whole thing that evening, minus the roof felt, which I added the following day, after re-felting both allotment and garden sheds for good measure.

Last year’s new chimney cowl has already melted, just like its predecessor. I’ve now “capped” it with a plastic tub and a house brick (I can hear the health and safety officers fainting). I’ll look for a reclaimed chimney pot; it might actually survive a winter.

I rashly agreed to sort out the Rugby Club website. The current webmaster’s reputation for inaction is legendary, so I wrangled permission to make updates myself. Now I’ve saddled myself with a job I didn’t want, but at least things might happen before the next ice age.

The other day, I let a technician into Jamie’s flat to check his windows. As I arrived, standing outside, two men were leaning against a van from the window company. I asked if they had come to work here. “No, mate,” one said cheerfully. “I’ve never worked a day in my life.” He looked 40, tanned, smug, and annoyingly fit. I was too stunned to reply, which was probably for the best.

Last week, Charlotte burst a tyre on a pothole the size of a small swimming pool, which caused her to hit a parked car (luckily belonging to a neighbour), and miraculously came away unscathed. The 11 cm-deep culprit had been the subject of numerous complaints to the builders, who filled it with concrete a few days later. She’s now bought a Nissan 4×4, which we hope is more pot-hole-proof. Suraj took photos of the pothole before it vanished, ready for the insurance claim.

On one evening, the Rothwells took us to the cinema in Kettering to see Transformers in 3D. I, Suraj, Charlotte, and Lucas, though it was great fun. I thought the action could have been slowed down for those of us who like to see what’s going on. Sue and Sarah didn’t fancy such nonsense and chose to see something else, which allegedly “was not my sort of film”, though I suspect they just didn’t want to share their popcorn.

With the schools breaking up, Sue now has six weeks’ summer freedom. We’ll be heading to Romford at the end of July for her Uncle Richard’s funeral, using a hotel voucher I won in a photo competition; it comes with “VIP status”, whatever that might mean.

David and Genya flew into the UK for a week to sort out some issues at their unit in Rotherham, but we were both too busy to meet up. They invited me to Bulgaria in September, but I’m holding off until Sarah decides what she’s doing next year.

On Monday, I had an MRI scan. The machine was very impressive, but the waiting time for results, less so. September!