24th June 2012

The following Tuesday, I was up at the crack of dawn and on the road north to Thurcroft, arriving around 9 am. After reading the long list of instructions Nan had left for me, I dutifully planted some runner beans at her insistence while she popped off to have her hair done in the village. Once her barnet had been suitably tamed, we set off to the Consort Hotel for lunch.

There, Nan and I became intrigued by a table of men who looked suspiciously well-behaved. They were quiet, obviously retired, and dressed in a curious mix of old suits and cardigans that had seen better decades. They didn’t look like walkers, and unless golf now allows corduroy trousers, they weren’t golfers either. Our curiosity got the better of us, so I asked the waiter who they were.

It turned out they were old school friends who had been meeting at the hotel once a month for donkey’s years. Their numbers had dwindled with time, but they were still faithful to the ritual. It was genuinely heartwarming, especially as it made a refreshing change from the lunchtime cacophony of gaggles of women with prams in pubs, who always put me in mind of Macbeth meeting the witches on the moor.

After lunch, I chauffeured Nan to Sheffield to see Aunt Edna at the Northern General. A neighbour had tipped us off that Edna had been whisked out of her nursing home after refusing to eat and generally losing her oomph. By the time we arrived, she’d already perked up thanks to the doctor’s examination and seemed optimistic about going home. We stayed for an hour and a half, doing our best to encourage her to eat something more substantial than a cup of tea and a glare.

The next day, we returned to Harborough in time for lunch and then whisked Nan off to Huntingdon Gardens to meet a representative from Seven Locks, the company managing the retirement flats. Nan quite liked the place, especially the communal bingo lounge, which she eyed with the same seriousness most people reserve for buying a house. We promised to give them an answer by Friday.

By the next morning, Nan had decided she was in. I rang Seven Locks to break the news, only to find they were keener than a double-glazing salesman; they booked us in for the very next day to do the paperwork. That afternoon, Sarah, Nan, and I popped to Rothwell to see Charlotte and the boys.

Later that night, however, came a worrying call: Charlotte had taken a turn for the worse. She’d been battling a migraine for a week, but this was something else. She was in severe pain, so I dashed over, collected the boys and brought them back to Harborough while Suraj took her to Kettering Hospital. She was admitted straight away, prodded with needles, given an MRI and blood tests, and plied with painkillers that seemed about as effective as Smarties. The boys stayed with us overnight, and Sarah and I ferried Lucas to school in the morning.

The MRI results came back clear, but the blood suggested a possible infection, and viral meningitis was mentioned, which concentrated our minds rather sharply. Nan and I still attended the meeting to sign her new flat contract, so she was all set to move in on Monday. That afternoon, Sue, Sarah, Nan, Lucas, and I visited Charlotte in the hospital. She looked much improved, thanks to a new batch of painkillers that finally seemed to be pulling their weight, though she still looked a bit like she’d just stepped off a rollercoaster.

Later, Sarah and I collected Lucas from school and returned to Rothwell, just in time for Charlotte to be discharged. She was delighted to see the boys again, and they clearly missed her too. Though she was still fragile, she was on the mend. To top it all off, England even managed to beat Sweden in Euro 2012 that evening, a rare medical miracle in itself.

Saturday rolled around, bringing Nan’s 84th birthday. Sue and I went on a council-organised walk to Bilsdon, where we treated ourselves to lunch in the pub, while Sarah and Nan celebrated in more traditional fashion, with a spot of shopping.

The Rothwells came over for a family birthday tea. That evening, England managed to lose to South Africa in the second rugby test, business as usual. I watched the game at the rugby club, while Sarah was pulling pints behind the bar at the Fernie Hunt Masked Ball to earn some money for university. She staggered home at 3:30 am the following morning, looking like she’d survived a night shift at Hogwarts.

Sunday was Father’s Day, and Charlotte had booked a zip-line adventure at Woburn Safari Park for Suraj and me. My first instinct was to plead old age and creaky joints, but I was outnumbered and reluctantly agreed. With Sue and Nan gamely on babysitting duty, the rest of us, Suraj, Charlotte, Jamie, Sarah and I, set off in the pouring rain. By the time we arrived, however, the sun had appeared as if someone had arranged it just for us.

After a quick practice session (basically being dangled about like oversized teabags), we launched ourselves onto the zip-line course. It was challenging, exhilarating, and more than a little undignified, but great fun. We even snuck back for another go, only to be caught and handed yellow cards by the instructors, as though we’d just made a dangerous tackle in the Six Nations.

Once we’d got our breath back, we drove through the safari park to gawp at the animals. On the way home, we stopped at a pub in Woburn for lunch, after which Charlotte, Sarah, Jamie and I enjoyed a gentle walk around the town, while Suraj, clearly exhausted by all the excitement, had a snooze in the car like a contented lion after lunch.

On Monday, Sarah, Nan and I went to Corby and bought a sofa for Nan’s new flat. That evening, Jamie helped me move it in, despite having spent the afternoon hiking in the Peak District. He texted me mid-walk, waxing lyrical about how beautiful it was. I couldn’t help but smile when we tackled the Pennine Way together years ago, back when he was nine. I’m fairly sure he paid more attention to his sandwiches than to the scenery.

On Tuesday, we were back in Corby again, this time picking up a single-seater chair, a dining table and chairs, and ordering a cooker to be delivered the following week. I also arranged for BT to fit a phone line and BTVision, so Nan would have Sky Sports and ESPN at her disposal, because what octogenarian doesn’t want round-the-clock football?

That evening, against all expectations, England actually managed to beat Ukraine. Miracles clearly do happen.

On Wednesday, Nan and I took Charlotte and Ellis out for lunch in Rothwell. That evening, I presided over the Rugby Club AGM, where, after three years in the saddle, I officially stepped down from my post. I felt I’d done my bit, three years of chasing membership fees is enough to test the patience of a saint, and I’m certainly no saint. Besides, being tied to the club on match days had proved tricky this year. Sadly, nobody rushed forward to claim the poisoned chalice, so the position remained vacant.

On Thursday, I drove Nan back to Thurcroft and spent the afternoon phoning a variety of companies and agencies to update them on her new address. By the end, I felt like a part-time call-centre worker. We rewarded ourselves with a pub lunch before I dismantled some furniture, ready to cart it back to Harborough. By evening, I’d had enough and went to bed early, while Lee came round to keep Sarah company.

I drove back to Harborough on Friday morning after dismantling Nan’s bed and wedging it into the car. The mattress, however, was having none of it and would need to be transported separately. It poured with rain the entire way back, as if the weather gods were unimpressed with my furniture removal skills. When I finally arrived, Sue and Sarah were just heading off to Charlotte’s. I sent out the rugby club newsletter I’d prepared earlier and then drove to Huntingdon Gardens to assemble the furniture in Nan’s flat. The warden popped by for a chat, curious to know when Nan would be moving in. Later, Jamie arrived bearing surplus meat from work, perfectly good cuts rejected by a supermarket thanks to a mislabelled packet. Their loss, our barbecue gain.

On Saturday, Charlotte was busy at the school fete, running the “Hook-a-Duck” stall and turning a tidy profit. Her efficiency didn’t go unnoticed; she was promptly asked to organise the whole show next year. Meanwhile, I sloped off to the pub to watch England grind out a draw against South Africa at rugby. Sarah was working behind the bar at the Rugby Club’s annual summer ball. Sue and I used to attend those evenings in full DJ-and-gown regalia, but we decided to give it a miss this time. My decision was confirmed when Sarah rang in a panic mid-evening, and I had to dash to the club with an extension lead for the cash register in the marquee. Seeing the guests looking so glamorous reminded me that I’d have had to squeeze back into my dinner jacket, something unlikely to happen without industrial assistance, given my current waistline. Sarah eventually rolled home at 3 am, weary but richer.

Jamie, meanwhile, hosted a barbecue with his friends, feasting on the supermarket’s cast-offs, which tasted all the better for being wrongly labelled. That night, England played Italy in the Euro 2012 quarter-finals. After 120 minutes of scoreless toil, they managed to uphold tradition by losing yet another penalty shootout. They’d played decently enough, but in the end, England’s Achilles’ heel, an unfortunate lack of talent, proved fatal once again.