2nd October 2012

Things have settled down a little in the family, and a degree of normality has crept back in, though whether it’s here to stay is another matter. Jobs are getting ticked off around the house in readiness for winter: the balcony has been stripped and repainted, the hedges and trees trimmed and lopped. Unfortunately, as a Fiesta can’t carry half as much as the old Stilo Estate, every run to the dump now has to be done twice. I should probably ask them for a loyalty card.

The garden is still producing, though the white grapes and sweetcorn are beginning to test my patience. Both are impressively large (some might even say boastfully huge), but still stubbornly refuse to sweeten. Meanwhile, the courgette flood has finally ceased, an unmistakable sign that autumn has arrived, and the greenhouse tomatoes and cucumbers are all but finished. On Sunday, I set about cleaning the bottom of the pool, where sand had crept in beneath the thermal cover thanks to our oh-so-reliable summer rain. I didn’t quite finish the job, so the cover went back on until today. On uncovering it again, I found the water crystal clear and ice cold. I added the hypochlorite anyway, but that was the final nail: swimming season is officially over.

I had a text from Joan and Phil announcing they were back in the country. Phil’s brother had been poorly for some time, and it was expected he wouldn’t be with us much longer. On the same day, Richard Blewitt phoned to check whether I’d be attending his 60th birthday bash at the Golf Club the following Saturday. I gave him Joan’s number, and they bagged an invite too.

So, Saturday night saw Sue and me at the party. It was wonderful to see Joan and Phil again, though a pity Roger hadn’t been invited; he could have met “the Italian Twosome.” Then again, given Roger and Richard’s mutual dislike, perhaps it was just as well. The food was excellent and plentiful, the music reassuringly of our era, and I knew most of the guests (though I did make a few hopeless attempts to avoid certain conversations).

We left soon after Joan and Phil, just as the disco got into full swing. Yes, I’ve reached that stage of life where dancing is best left to others. My excuse was the gammy leg; Sue’s was that it was long past her bedtime. Both entirely valid, in my book.

I’ve managed a couple of walks with an old friend, John Lee. Out of the blue, he suggested we meet up and stretch our legs around the fields of Leicestershire. As he’s currently undergoing treatment for cancer, I wasn’t entirely sure whether it was a wise idea, but last Tuesday we met in Uppingham and enjoyed a splendid three-hour ramble, followed by an equally splendid lunch of quail and rabbit pie in a local pub.

John was very much his old self, showing no outward signs of treatment, unless you count his ability to stride up hills while I huffed and puffed behind. We reminisced about the “old days” and swapped tales of what we’d been up to since, but studiously avoided the subject of his illness. Frankly, we had enough trouble just getting our breath back on the climbs.

As we parted for the journey home, John cheerfully asked if we could do it all again next week. I agreed, though perhaps with slightly fewer hills on the menu.

On Saturday, Roger and I joined a Council walk to Manton, right by Rutland Water. To my surprise, among the walkers was an old work colleague, Debbie Goodband, who had also been at Richard’s party the week before. As she also happened to be one of Roger’s old flames, he was particularly delighted by the coincidence. In fact, he managed the remarkable feat of completing a three-hour walk without once mentioning Fran.

The walk itself was a delight, scenic, well planned, and blessed with fine weather. By the time we reached the Horse and Jockey, lunch was not just welcome but essential. After dropping Roger off in Harborough, my mobile rang: Jim Crawford reminding me that the Tigers were playing Exeter on ESPN at the Angel. So, out came the bike, and I spent the rest of the afternoon in the far more strenuous pursuit of watching rugby with a pint in hand.

Today I walked again with John, this time plotting a route around Broughton-on-the-Hill. We met at the Stilton Cheese pub in Somerby (a promising start to any outing). The walk took just under four hours, with the weather sunny but blustery. At the top of the hill fort, the wind was so fierce we could barely stay upright, less ramblers on a stroll and more drunken sailors on deck.

The route was relentlessly up and down, a proper workout that made the pint and lasagne back at the pub taste all the better. As we parted, I promised we’d squeeze in another walk when I return from Bulgaria, assuming my legs have forgiven me by then.

Last Sunday, the auction that Suraj had kindly managed for me on eBay (to sell Nan’s stairlift) finally came to an end. The winning bidder wanted to collect it on Monday morning at 9 o’clock sharp. After confirming by phone that he was indeed going to appear, I drove up to Thurcroft that evening. The house was chilly, but the bed was warm, and I was soon cocooned.

True to his word, the buyer arrived on the dot and had the stairlift dismantled and whisked away in no time. Apparently, it was due to be installed in a house in Cambridge the very next day, Nan’s lift moving on to a new career.

No sooner had the van disappeared down the road than Sarah magically appeared in her little KA. She’d been to see Lee and had now come to whisk me off to lunch. First, though, we popped into a couple of estate agents to check progress, then I played roadside mechanic and replaced a blown fuse in her car, which had left her unable to charge her mobile (a fate worse than death for the younger generation). Next, it was on to solicitors’ offices in Wickersley, where, after a round of visits, we picked one, and I promised to return after lunch to tackle the inevitable mountain of paperwork.

We lunched in Whiston, then Sarah headed off to Sheffield for an evening training session while I returned to complete the seemingly endless forms. Once done, I pointed the car back towards Harborough.

So far, Sue, Charlotte and the boys have gone unmentioned, but only because they’d been at the seaside! Sue had a day’s work at Church Langton on Tuesday, and the very next morning, she joined Charlotte and the boys for a few days with Philippa and Paul in Buckfastleigh. The weather played ball, and beaches were duly visited, though Sue picked up a heavy cold in school before setting off, which she then passed to Charlotte (souvenirs of the less welcome sort).

Meanwhile, Suraj was in London all week on a course, complete with a Friday exam, which he passed despite a heady cocktail of illness, loneliness, and commuting. He also managed to acquire conjunctivitis, undoubtedly a computer virus contracted from staring at screens for too long. That ruled out our midweek curry-and-cinema plan, but by the weekend, he was sufficiently recovered for us to catch Looper (a decent film) just before the girls (and boys) returned to Leicestershire.

By sheer luck, as I was dropping Suraj off in Rothwell, Sue rang to say they were only five minutes away and asked if I could collect her too. Perfect timing. The boys bounced into view like human space-hoppers, so I can only assume poor Philippa and Paul were flat out back in Buckfastsleep.