18th September 2012

On 8th September, everyone except Jamie trotted off to Lubenham to inspect their scarecrows. It turned out to be an absolute scorcher, and having been lulled into a false sense of security by the cooler weather in the days before, we all dressed as though autumn had already arrived. I, in particular, suffered from the fatal error of forgetting any headgear; my poor scalp slowly roasting like a Sunday chicken.

The staggeringly inventive scarecrows enchanted the boys. One exhibit was even handing out free toys to children, an obvious bribe for the best scarecrow, thinly disguised as neighbourly generosity. I strongly suspect it was part of a cunning plot to clinch the village competition.

We sought shade (and sanity) in a marquee, where burgers and cold drinks offered temporary relief from the blazing sun. Out on the Green, the fairground rides kept the boys entertained, while the adults wandered about the stalls, admiring the “lovely things” on offer. Not that any wallets were harmed in the process.

By 2:30 pm, we had dutifully inspected every scarecrow, ride, and trinket and decided it was time to head back to Willow Bank, hot, slightly crispy around the edges, but thoroughly cheerful.

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When we got back, the phone rang, Jim Crawford on the line. Within minutes, I’d hopped on my bike and pedalled off to the Rugby Club to watch the Colts give Lutterworth a good thrashing. This time I remembered two essentials I’d missed in Lubenham: shorts and a hat. No sense in roasting twice in one weekend.

Monday was meant to see Nan and me heading up to Yorkshire to finish the work on the house, but at the last minute, she decided she’d had quite enough of northern graft. So off I went alone, armed with tools and, more importantly, a functioning Freeview box, because after a day of labour, a man needs the comforting glow of terrestrial telly.

Thursday brought a brush with fate that reminded me of the old saying: when your number’s up, it’s up. I was in the middle of relocating the shed further up the garden to free a parking space. With the front and back walls already knocked out, I was chiselling at a stubborn screw in one of the side panels when the whole contraption lurched sideways. My supporting post had slipped. Realising I was seconds away from being squashed flat, I lunged for the narrowing gap, only for the step-ladder to collapse in theatrical slow motion right across my escape route.

I ricocheted off the ladder and landed flat on the ground, just in time for the apex of the shed roof to come down neatly over me. There I was: entombed in the garden shed. Channelling my inner Houdini, I braced myself against the roof, heaved it aside, and wriggled out, scratched, bruised, and slightly dazed but otherwise intact. The score? Ladder: 1 (gash to the head, sore wrist). Shed: nil. Me: still standing, though with a renewed respect for garden structures.

On Friday, I headed back to Harborough, having had the house in Yorkshire valued by a couple of local estate agents, both of whom, naturally, promised me the earth and a quick sale. We shall see.

Sarah’s car, meanwhile, emerged victorious from its MOT, tax, and insurance ordeal. Her maiden voyage was to Rothwell to see her sister, swiftly followed by a trip up to Lee’s for a longer stay. She and Charlotte marked her new driving independence with a night out at a cocktail bar in Rothwell. From the photographic evidence on Facebook, it looked more like a tactical assault on the drinks menu than a quiet celebration. The following morning, judging by their silence, the recovery period was less glamorous.

I played golf with Suraj again, clawing back a little dignity after my previous efforts. One discovery, however: golf clubs and the boot of a Ford Fiesta are not on speaking terms. That was a tight fit, best forgotten.

Last Sunday, Nan and I drove up to Yorkshire with Sarah following in convoy. She was due to start university on Tuesday, moving into a house in Sheffield with five friends. The M1 was kind to us, and we arrived in good time. After hauling what looked like the entire stockroom of Primark up to her new room, I caught Nan already chastising her housemates about the kitchen mess and the state of the garden. Strangely enough, her feedback wasn’t greeted with wild enthusiasm.

Afterwards, we dropped in at Priory Bank, where Aunt Edna resides. Or rather, used to reside. On arrival, we found a completely new set of agency staff who seemed trained in the art of evasive answers. Edna, it turned out, had been taken to the hospital. Which hospital? That detail was apparently above their pay grade. After a round of detective work (and one unhelpful phone call to the Northern General), we finally tracked her down to the Hallamshire, mercifully only a mile away.

We found her on the stroke ward, looking surprisingly well considering the circumstances. One side of her face was a little slack, and she had trouble with some words, but she recognised us immediately and was keen to know exactly where she was. The nurses confirmed she’d been in for a couple of days and was already showing signs of improvement. As it wasn’t officially visiting time and the staff were beginning to bristle, we stayed an hour before heading back to Thurcroft.

That evening was rounded off with quiche and coleslaw, golf on the telly, and an early night. It turned out to be a cold one. The following morning, Nan harvested runner beans while I pulled up the plants for the compost heap. Then it was off to Nicky’s for coffee, where she surprised us with the announcement that she was pregnant, with a boy! She’d kept that very quiet indeed.

Before leaving, I took a spin around Thurcroft, knocking on doors of houses with “For Sale” signs belonging to the agents who’d valued Nan’s property. To find out what experience they are having. True to Yorkshire form, each neighbour not only knew Nan but could recount three generations of family history before the kettle boiled. I collected enough names, memories, and gossip to keep Nan busy for days.

Mission complete, I scooped up Nan, met Sarah in Whiston for a pub lunch, then returned to Thurcroft to officially put the house on the market. A few shed items were loaded into the car, goodbyes exchanged with Nan’s friends, and then I pointed the car back towards Leicestershire, estate agent’s paperwork in my pocket and a boot rattling with odds and ends.

That evening, Sue announced she was off to the Sugar Loaf. Naturally, I offered to join her for a drink, but my gallantry was briskly rebuffed. Her mission, it turned out, was not refreshment but retrieval; Charlotte had mislaid a pair of sunglasses there during Sunday lunch. At £140 for a pair of Pradas, it had been quite an expensive meal. Fortunately, Sue charmed the staff into having a rummage and, lo and behold, the glasses were recovered from the back, along with an extra pair we appear to have accidentally adopted.

Over the weekend, Jamie and a mate tinkered with his car, managing the extraordinary feat of raising the suspension. The ride was “too bumpy” beforehand. I can’t help but wonder whether he’s developing piles. At least the road humps of Harborough will now breathe a collective sigh of relief.

 

Back at the allotments, production is in full swing. The grapes have now joined the party: the red variety has been ripe for a week, though they’re more

 “blackcurrant in fancy dress” than supermarket-sized grapes. They may be small, but they’re packed with flavour and dangerously moreish. With about ten bunches per vine, there’s no shortage. The white grapes, meanwhile, look promisingly plump but are still hard as bullets. A bit more sunshine, please.

Sue and I popped along to Harborough Theatre to see Salmon Fishing in the Yemen. A charming film, full of dry wit, and well worth an evening out.

Yesterday, Nan and I enjoyed lunch at The Waterfront. Excellent food, made all the better by the view over the canal where we once lived. While we were indulging in nostalgia, Sue was out with Lynne Keane (Charlotte’s former childminder) at Emerson & Wests, no doubt comparing notes over coffee and cake.