5th August 2012

The so-called heatwave was nothing more than a flirtation. It breezed in, flaunted its sunshine for a week, and then vanished without so much as a goodbye. Now we’re right back where we belong: soggy days, endless drizzle, and a nation collectively wondering why we ever bother with barbecues. Still, at least it isn’t snowing.

And just when we thought the weather was the worst of our troubles, Ellis went and turned two. Yes, the tiny tyrant is officially another year older. Happy birthday to the little whirlwind. May his energy one day be harnessed to power the National Grid.

Ellis marked his second birthday with a party that would make any adult green with envy. He managed to chill out, steam up, and cool off all in the space of a day. First came a BBQ at home, perhaps fitting for a budding little firebug. Then he hopped aboard a steam train, which is surely the pinnacle of two-year-old cool. And, as if that weren’t enough, the celebrations ended with another BBQ and a dip in the pool at Willow Bank. When I was two, the most exciting thing I owned was probably a wooden spoon.

Back in my day, steam trains weren’t a novelty; they were everywhere. A BBQ meant Mum had burnt the Sunday roast (again), and a “dip in the pool” was little more than splashing about in the muddy stream at Brookehouse. Times have changed, clearly for the better!

Meanwhile, Sue and I celebrated our 36th wedding anniversary in slightly more refined style, with a fancy dinner at Brownsover Hall Hotel. We strolled through the grounds afterwards and rounded the evening off with a quiet drink in the bar. We’ve even decided to return for a picnic in the park next to the hotel. Who knows, maybe we’re attempting to relive our honeymoon, just with fewer hairstyles from the 1970s.

Last Saturday, we joined the council for what they optimistically called a “walk.” In reality, it was more of an endurance test disguised as a ramble. We set off from Lamport Steam Railway Station, a charming start, though I half expected to be issued with rations and a compass.

The route wound its way through some rather picturesque villages, where our red faces, enthusiastic shouts, and laboured panting probably convinced the locals we were filming an amateur survival programme. Eventually, we staggered back to civilisation in the form of the pub beside the station, where we heroically undid all our calorie-burning efforts with a hearty lunch. Still, it was a grand day out, and for a brief moment, we almost believed we were still fit.

We ventured to the Harborough Cinema to see The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel, a comedy about a group of retirees who find themselves in a crumbling hotel in India. It was equal parts hilarious and heart-warming. If you’re in need of a good laugh (or a reminder that getting old can still be an adventure), I’d highly recommend it.

On the culinary front, we hosted an Italian night that would have made even Nonna proud. Charlotte served up fusilli with spinach and Asiago cheese, Sarah produced pizzas worthy of Naples, and I contributed some Italian pork meatballs that could make even the Pope loosen his belt. The biggest triumph? Nan polished off her plate without a single complaint. If that isn’t proof of quality, nothing is.

With the sun blazing down, the pool has been the undisputed star of the season. Sarah, Charlotte, and the boys have been splashing about like dolphins on holiday, even inviting a few friends to join the fun. It’s wonderful to see it in use, though I can’t shake the niggling suspicion that autumn is already sharpening its claws.

As I write, the sky has turned inky black and lightning is crackling across the horizon. It’s as though Mother Nature herself is reminding us that she’s still in charge, and perhaps we should keep our feet and umbrellas firmly indoors.

Meanwhile, the garden is thriving. We’ve been harvesting vegetables left and right, though the potatoes remain stubbornly small and uncooperative, as if sulking about the weather. The vines, on the other hand, are coming along splendidly. I’ve been pruning and weeding like a man possessed, one might even say a mad gardener, though at least a productive one.

Nan has at long last registered with the local doctor, a minor miracle in itself. She bravely endured a blood test, too, though I suspect she’d rather have been anywhere else. I had the honour of escorting her to the surgery in a downpour, followed by a soggy dash to the pharmacy for her repeat prescription. To sweeten the ordeal, I ordered her some sugar-free sweets online. Surprisingly, they weren’t half bad. Not quite the real thing, of course, but at least they don’t send her bouncing off the walls.

The much-anticipated Olympic Golden Tickets finally found their way to Sarah, Lee, Jamie, and one of Jamie’s friends. Sarah and Lee opted for the train to London, which, given the weather, was probably more ordeal than adventure. Jamie and his mate drove to St Albans and then caught the train into the city. Despite the drizzle (and Jamie inconveniently falling ill on the very day), they all had a marvellous time. Typical, really, nothing like bad luck to keep you humble.

Sarah and Lee attended the boxing at Earl’s Court, with Sarah keeping us updated via text. Sadly, the TV coverage was so dimly lit that you couldn’t spot a single soul in the crowd. It was rather like watching a secret fight club, minus Brad Pitt.