8th August 2011

It’s been nearly a month since I last plonked myself down to update the Family Blog. By now, the chances of me recalling everything we’ve done are about as slim as me winning Strictly Come Dancing. When the family eventually reads this, they’ll inevitably moan that I’ve missed something “crucial”, forcing an edit. Consider yourselves warned.

Sue and I joined a council-organised walk along the southern shore of Rutland Water. It was a glorious summer’s day, the sort where you feel smug just for being outside. In true crocodile fashion, we trailed eastwards for five and a half miles before looping back along country lanes. I’ve never been a fan of tarmac walking; my soles start protesting within minutes, and dodging traffic is less than idyllic.

We set off at a cracking pace, but as usual, the “tortoise and partner” brought up the rear, stopping to sniff daisies, admire ducks, and generally undermine our hare-like efforts. We dutifully waited at the finish line, pretending not to be impatient.

RAF Cottesmore was limbering up for its summer air show, and we were treated to the chest-rattling roar of a Vulcan bomber circling for half an hour. As if that wasn’t enough, we got a Red Arrows fly-past and a Lancaster doing a bombing run along the reservoir. We then lunched on sandwiches by the foreshore, watching yachts scudding across the water.

The afternoon’s stroll along the west shore was a more modest four and a half miles. The tortoises in the group looked dangerously close to expiry, but the bus left Harborough on time, and, more miraculously, with everyone on board.

That evening, Suraj, Jim, Paul and I were guests of JP Morgan Asset Management at the Northampton Saints Rugby 7s. Sue kindly drove us, possibly sensing she was dispatching four men into trouble. I’d been before and had vague, beer-blurred memories of it, so this year I brought Suraj as a “steadying influence”. Rookie mistake.

At the entrance, security mistook us for retired international players (I could see why) and ushered us into the Director’s Box. We suspected a mix-up but decided to roll with it. Several free beers and nibbles later, we slipped away before anyone noticed. On the way out, we bumped into Allan Robson, Saints’ Director, who probably confirmed to himself that we did not, in fact, play for England in 1987.

We eventually found our way to the hospitality tent, more beer, more food, and somehow ended up chatting to Jamie Dimon, CEO of JPMorgan Chase, mostly about rugby. When the matches began, we opted to watch on the tent’s several big screens. When the semi-finals rolled around, we made our way into the stadium to find Suraj… back in the Director’s Box. Naturally, we joined him, blending in among actual rugby legends until a suspicious chap in a suit asked questions. We made a hasty retreat to the tent.

Magically, Jamie Dimon reappeared with a bottle of 150-year-old brandy, and after emptying the bottle, he invited us to the London finals. Thinking, “This is going rather well”. With amnesia kicking in, the next thing I remember was waking up at 10:30 am on the bathroom floor the following morning and being amusingly informed by Sue that I’d redecorated both our hallway and Paul’s wife’s car in a rather unorthodox style. Suraj allegedly spent the night on our family bathroom floor. There are photos.

That afternoon was the wedding of Sarah Hankers, daughter of Jim Hankers (yes, that Jim from the previous night). I felt like death reheated and protested that I was too ill to go, but Sue insisted I dress and drink lots of coffee. Suraj looked equally corpse-like.

At the Holy Cross Dominican RC Church in Leicester, Sarah Hankers floated down the aisle looking radiant, while her accompanying father’s pallor could have matched her dress. At one point during the service, he quietly slipped out for ten minutes and returned looking marginally less ghostly, and a lot less billious.

The reception at The Cricketers saw the bride’s father stick to black coffee, so I joined him in solidarity (and survival). Sue and I left before the disco; I was convinced loud music might exacerbate my “inner ear problem”.

On the 29th of July, Sue and I travelled south to attend the funeral of Richard Crosbie, a relative of Sue’s from Upminster. We’d booked a hotel nearby with a voucher I’d won in a photography competition, turning it into a mini-break. The journey there took twice as long thanks to an M1 crash, but we managed a refreshing, stretch our legs walk before our hotel evening meal.

The next morning, we arrived early at the crematorium and found my Uncle Stanley, 90 years old, partially deaf and blind, enjoying a coffee outside. The cafe had a reputation for its hot mince pies, which is surely a unique selling point for a crematorium.

When the funeral procession arrived and the deceased’s widow spotted Stan, all decorum vanished. It transpired that she’d been desperately trying to contact him and wanted him to stay for the wake, but unfortunately, Stan was determined not to. The coffin bearers, waiting patiently for the conversation to end, visibly sagged under the weight while negotiations dragged on. Eventually, the service began, with Sue steering Stan to a pew, while I remained diplomatically at the back. As the service finished and the mourners gathered in conversation, Stan vanished.  We eventually found him back at the cafe and still refusing to attend the wake.

Unmoved, we agreed that we would take him home with us, planning to transport him back to Salford on Monday. The ensuing drive took five hours, thanks to yet more accidents on the motorway. Throughout, Stan slept.

Sunday was Ellis’s first birthday, but before the celebrations, I took Stan to see my allotments, where he promptly found a seat and smoked his pipe while I watered, weeded, and picked some produce. That afternoon, he joined us at Charlotte’s, while Suraj manned the BBQ and Lucas enjoyed the treehouse I had made for him. Stan managed to down four beers with our neighbour Peter while watching the festivities.

When Suraj handed out water pistols, cue chaos. Lucas and I had an epic battle, I got damp, Lucas got drenched, and everyone got silly. We played Pass the Parcel, Pin the Tail on the Donkey, and sang Happy Birthday while Ellis looked on, slightly baffled, obviously enjoying himself.

On Monday, I drove Stan home to Salford without drama, then crossed the moors to Yorkshire to visit Nan. In the afternoon, we walked around Ulley Reservoir, before demolishing a Chinese takeaway for our evening meal.  The next day, I tidied her garden, rebuilt the shed ramp so that her mobility scooter could drive into it, and had lunch at a Thai restaurant in Dinnington.

On Wednesday, she foolishly challenged me to a race, her mobility scooter vs my Fiat to the Red Lion down the lane for lunch. Unsurprisingly, I won. The winner was to pay the bill! However, I had the best steak and ale pie ever; rich meat, proper pastry, and a beer flavour that didn’t hide shyly in the background.

Later, much lighter in the wallet, I returned to Willow Bank.