Since getting back from Bulgaria, it feels as though the rain hasn’t let up once. The ground is so saturated it couldn’t swallow a thimbleful of water, let alone cope with another day’s deluge. Now any rain sits on the surface, sulking in great puddles the size of small lakes.
My daily bike rides have turned into mud-wrestling bouts, with the wheels collecting so much muck it’s like dragging a stubborn donkey behind me. On one outing, for the first time in years, I skidded and parted company with the bike. As I soared through the air in cinematic slow motion, I braced for the inevitable bone-jarring crash, only to land in a mud patch so soft it could have doubled as memory foam. The only damage was to my pride, with perhaps a minor dent in my dignity. The mud, of course, had the last laugh.
Sue cheerfully reported that the river had been ‘up’ a few times while I was away in Bulgaria. One night, during yet another biblical downpour, we sat watching the water creep higher and higher. By 3 a.m., it was practically flexing its muscles, ready to vault the bank and audition for a role in The Day After Tomorrow. According to the BBC, the whole country was half-drowned, which is rather amusing given we’d only just had a hosepipe ban in May because of “water shortages.” I’m convinced they jinxed it, ever since that announcement, the heavens have been running on a permanent ‘on’ switch.
The river didn’t start dropping until the following evening, and it took another full day to slink back into its bed like a hungover teenager. A walk around the fields near the farm shop revealed most of them underwater, with Welland Park rebranded as Welland Lake. About twenty cars by the railway station had gone for an impromptu dip, and several houses in town got an unwanted introduction to local aquatic life. The forecast for the rest of the month cheerfully promises freezing temperatures and possible snow, because clearly, things weren’t miserable enough already.
Despite the perpetual drizzle, I’ve been out with the chainsaw, taking down trees and chopping logs into fire-sized chunks. I’ve stockpiled enough wood to survive a Siberian winter, though a few logs are still out there somewhere under water. Hopefully, they haven’t gone rafting downstream. I’ll check when the fields dry up, or if they float past and wave. There’s a big sycamore on the riverbank that really needs to come down before it drops into the water and builds a DIY dam, but with the river so high, I’ve no great desire to take a swim with a chainsaw. It was supposed to be a summer project anyway, but like most summer projects, it never made it past the “I’ll do it tomorrow” stage.
Sue’s been called into work a few times at Church Langton. They’ve got a new Head who started off keen to cover classes, but reality’s since slapped him with a mountain of paperwork. To be fair, they ought to rename them “Managers” instead of Headteachers these days. Teaching experience seems optional, what you really need is the ability to swim through bureaucracy.
We did manage a dry spell on a recent council walk around Pitsford Reservoir. It was good to catch up with everyone, including a few new faces, and lunch at The Swan in Holcot was spot on. I had the trout, fresh from the reservoir, and it was excellent. I knew it was good because when I took Mum the following week, even she, a woman who treats menus like minefields, gave it a glowing review. That’s high praise indeed.
Afterwards, we went on to Kettering to see At the End of Duty, a documentary-style film about two LA cops. Not exactly a cheery number, with an ending that aimed straight for the tear ducts, but still worth watching if you like your popcorn served with a side of emotional bruising.
Meanwhile, Sarah’s been spending time with Lee and somehow managed to polish off two essays well before their February deadlines. I swear, she’s a completely different person when it comes to coursework, unrecognisable from the rest of us who mastered the fine art of last-minute panic. She’s also been mentoring “youthful criminals” (apparently, the run-of-the-mill variety just won’t do) and joined a panel that deals with domestic disputes. Between all that, she’s keeping rather busy. She’s especially looking forward to a trip to Blackpool with her university friends, though when that’s actually happening is anyone’s guess.
Nan and I had a run up to Thurcroft last week and stayed overnight. The house was exactly as we’d left it two months earlier (thankfully free of squatters, ghosts, and unexpected wildlife). We dropped in on Nicky, who’s about eleven weeks away from giving birth. She was still smiling, though I suspect she’s under no illusions about what’s coming, sleepless nights and all. From there, we waded through some localised flooding to Braithwell to settle up with Harry, Nan’s gardener, before calling in on Aunt Edna. Last time we saw her, she’d had a stroke, so it was a relief to find her looking surprisingly sprightly. Her speech is a little slurred, but her memory was sharp as ever, which was lovely. After a good hour and a half, we went to pick up Sarah, fed her at a decent pub that didn’t require us to remortgage, and then braved Morrison’s for a student food shop. The £53 grocery bill suggests she’s in no danger of wasting away.
Suraj and I have managed a couple of cinema trips too. Looper was excellent, but the real revelation was Skyfall. After months of enduring its relentlessly over-hyped trailer on Bulgarian radio and swearing to David I’d never watch it, I caved in, only to discover it was brilliant. Easily the best Bond yet, and proof that sometimes eating your words is rather enjoyable.
After lunch at a new pub in Harborough, we headed over to the Corby driving range. Our original plan of playing a proper round had been scuppered by a waterlogged course, so we settled for knocking a few balls about instead. Now, picture this: Suraj, armed with his gleaming new carbon-fibre club, steps up for his very first swing. And, CRACK!, the thing snaps clean in half. Jamie and I, being the supportive relatives we are, of course tried to keep straight faces… though our muffled snorts probably gave us away. Honestly, it’s very hard to look sympathetic when you’re crying with laughter.
In a curious twist of fate, I also had a week of tyre-related déjà vu. First, I helped Jamie change a tyre after his car picked up a puncture. Then, later that same day, I was at the garage with a slow puncture on my Fiesta. Clearly, the universe had decided I needed a crash course in roadside maintenance, or maybe it was just testing how far my patience (and vocabulary of swear words) could stretch. Either way, by the end of the day, I felt like I’d joined a very niche support group: “Drivers Against Rubber Sabotage.”
Palmer Family 
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