23rd April 2012

The moment the faceless bureaucrats at the water boards announced a hosepipe ban due to a so-called water shortage, I knew summer was doomed. True to form, the heavens have been open ever since, even today, as if the ban had summoned the clouds in a fit of bureaucratic spite. In the good old days, when our water was in British hands, summers seemed sunnier. Now that foreign companies own it, I can’t help but suspect they’ve been shipping our sunshine abroad and sending all their spare rain clouds our way.

I’ve got a bold proposal: the government should buy back our water and flog it to the Maldives. In exchange, we’ll take their climate, warm days, the odd refreshing shower at night, and perfect conditions for gardening, beaches, and wanting to go outside.

The allotments are loving the deluge; onions, parsnips, potatoes, and broad beans are thriving. The greenhouse seedlings have been potted on and are flourishing with pool water. The tomato plants have done so well that, rather than chuck out the surplus, I’m planning to flog them at a car boot sale. Who knows, today it’s tomatoes, tomorrow it’s Dragons’ Den.

Refereeing the club’s first-ever 10s competition was my good deed for the month, and quite possibly my last. I may enjoy cycling, but running is a different beast entirely, and my legs are still sulking about it.

Speaking of cycling, my morning rides remain a joy, exploring quiet bridleways while most of the world is still asleep. Unfortunately, there’s been an increase in “ghost riders” on my lanes, leaving muddy tyre marks on my favourite routes. I’ve half-considered stringing up a few lengths of piano wire between trees, but I suspect that wouldn’t go down well with the local constabulary.

Easter arrived with its usual chocolate glut, and the family gathered for Sunday lunch. Things took a turn when Ellis, mid-cuddle with Charlotte, unleashed a torrent of green, chocolaty vomit straight into her lap, while she was sitting on our brand-new sofa. Poor Charlotte had nowhere to run and had to weather the storm. I’ll admit there was a certain karmic satisfaction in it, but she decided it was probably best to make an early exit.

Comedy has been a theme lately, a cracking night at the rugby club, followed by another in Leicester thanks to Sarah’s birthday voucher. We dragged Jim and Bridget along, stuffed ourselves with an Indian meal, and laughed ourselves silly at the show.

The mood shifted the following day. I’d been due to take Nan to the eye clinic in Thurcroft, but Janet’s funeral meant a change of plans. With Sarah back at university and Charlotte wanting to attend, Sue stayed behind. The day was long, starting at 7:30 am to fit in a visit to Aunt Edna’s care home, but punctuated with family stops, a half-decent lunch at the Royal Oak (chips still a bit limp), and then Janet’s packed-out service. The turnout was enormous; the priest’s humour lightened the mood, and afterwards, the village club laid on a classic Yorkshire funeral tea, buffet, beer, and even a short game of bingo for charity. Janet left her mark on the community; her wish to have her ashes scattered at Skegness was entirely fitting for a woman who once cycled there for charity.

The next day, Sue and I played taxi, taking Jamie and Harley to Stansted for their Ryanair flight to Kos. Afterwards, we detoured to the White Hart Inn, a 15th-century gem with sprawling grounds and a Bridal Suite that was ours for the night. We explored Hedingham Castle, dined on a six-course tasting menu (I stalled at the finish line), and endured a film called The Cabin in the Woods, which was about as coherent as a politician’s apology.

Since Easter, there’s been more golf with Jamie, and a few rounds with Suraj, who’s taken to the game alarmingly well. I suspect he’s already eyeing up shiny new clubs.

A new Scrabble app has infiltrated the family, reducing Sunday gatherings to silent bouts of competitive wordplay. When I suggested using the actual board, they scoffed, declaring the app superior. I’ve now joined in, though I’ve yet to beat Sarah, whom I strongly suspect of digital skulduggery.

Today began promisingly, a rain-free ride despite plenty of puddles, but was interrupted by a series of sobering conversations. Roger Woolnough dropped by with news of his skin cancer diagnosis. Then John rang to say his cancer had spread, and the outlook was grim. Moments later, Gary from the rugby club called to discuss the recent beer price rise, a subject which, after the previous two calls, felt like a minor cosmic joke.

Last night, I listened to a man with a terminal illness speak on the radio. His message was simple but resonant: live each day to the full. Janet’s funeral proved the same point; she made her days count, and it showed in how many people came to say goodbye.

Perhaps the best thing we can do is take a leaf out of her book: savour the good bits, weather the bad bits, and hope that, just occasionally, the rain takes a day off.