2nd April 2012

A few days before Mother’s Day, I set off for Thurcroft with a mission: convince Nan to move back to Harborough. Sue and I had spotted a rather charming apartment on Welland Park Road and decided it was worth showing her. House-hunting and family visiting, a two-for-one deal.

Things went a bit sideways when I rang Sarah to invite her to lunch. Her voice was croaky, and she confessed she’d been struck down by a vicious chest infection. While she spent the day languishing in her student digs, Nan and I had a quiet lunch for two, with just the occasional cough.

By the following morning, Sarah was worse, so I collected her and took her to the local NHS drop-in centre. A swift examination later, she was armed with antibiotics, a hot water bottle, and strict orders to rest. We drove back to Harborough, where she promptly vanished into her room like a Victorian heroine taking to her bed.

Nan and I went to see the Welland Park Road flat. Sadly, the only redeeming feature was the postcode. Everything else, the kitchen, bathroom, and décor, required more than just a lick of paint. We decided the search would continue.

On Mother’s Day, Sue hosted a lovely lunch. Nan and Sarah’s mum lent a hand in the kitchen (always useful to have two extra pairs of hands for peeling, plating, and “tasting” the roasties). Sarah perked up enough to join in, which was a relief.

At an hour when even the birds were still yawning, I drove Sarah and Nan back to Yorkshire. Sarah had lectures to catch, Nan had a GP appointment, and I had the satisfaction of getting them both where they needed to be on time. I stayed at Nan’s a few days before heading south.

That Saturday, Sue and I took a warm spring walk to Peatling Parva, soaking up the horsey Leicestershire scenery and finishing with lunch at the local pub. Afterwards, I headed to the rugby club for the Six Nations finale.

By Wednesday, I was back in Thurcroft, escorting Nan to her annual eye test. Two new pairs of glasses were ordered, and later that day, I picked up Sarah, heavily laden with end-of-term laundry, for the journey home.

The Rothwells returned from Cape Verde, tanned and full of praise for its beaches, food, and weather. We viewed their holiday photos: two sessions, 400+ images each. The first 20 had me convinced it was beautiful; the remaining 680 merely confirmed it… several times over. I now know I’ll be packing a 16GB SD card for Borneo, not for my benefit, but for whoever’s stuck looking at them afterwards.

Meanwhile, Charlotte has joined the PTA and Sarah’s become Social Secretary for the Ponds Forge Scuba Diving Club, I expect their calendars to be bursting soon. Friday curry nights remain sacred, with Sue declaring my latest effort “the best in ages.” I foresee an extra chilli or two appearing on certain plates in the near future.

Jamie’s car is back on the road thanks to a DIY repair using second-hand parts bought online, a considerable saving from the £650 garage quote. Still, the Northampton commute is wearing him down, so he’s job-hunting for something closer and less weekend-heavy.

For the second year running, I missed Lucas’s Easter Bonnet Parade. Sue and Sarah attended, admiring Charlotte’s entry, the product of three nights’ work, two litres of glue, a bale of straw, a dozen eggs, and a few strands of her hair. The judges, with questionable eyesight, awarded it a cream egg.

The glorious weather has kept me busy at the allotments. The weeds are gone, the broad beans are sprouting, and the raspberries and vines are showing life. Onions and parsnips are in the ground; tomatoes are thriving in the propagator, soon to be joined in the greenhouse by cucumber, aubergine, and melon seedlings. I’m resisting planting the rest until the frost risk passes.

Last Sunday, Sarah and I went to London in support of Jamie’s image project. The event itself went smoothly; the transport, less so. With two Tube lines not running, we found ourselves herded from one wrong bus stop to another, like extras in a farce. At one point, we finally found the right bus, only for two Nigerian drivers to politely squabble over who was in charge. Eventually, we made it to Denmark Hill, did the job (for which Sarah was paid), and rewarded ourselves with cheeseburgers near St Pancras.

On the return, David rang. He’d seen a Facebook post suggesting a family death and feared it was his sister Janet. Once home, I called Nan, who confirmed the sad news: Janet had passed away that morning after being admitted to the hospital the night before with breathing difficulties.

Other than David, Janet was the only member of the Nixon family I truly connected with, hardworking, generous, and always looking out for others, including Nan. The last time I saw her was outside a charity shop a few weeks ago, taking a breather from helping inside. She’ll be sorely missed.