30th December 2012

On Monday, Nan joined the Huntingdon Gardens gang for their Christmas dinner. They trekked to Enderby to dine at a Toby Inn (yes, apparently they still exist, who knew?). The food was the usual festive fare, and naturally it wouldn’t have been a proper ‘wrinklies’ outing without a chorus of complaints: slow service, tepid turkey, overcrowding, the full pensioner package. Still, I think she enjoyed herself, and it did her good to get out on her own. Later in the week, we had the usual drama with her medication running out (again). The crisis was resolved only when I staged a personal rescue mission to the chemist. I’ve now programmed a permanent reminder in my Yahoo diary to collect her pills. It repeats forever, because so does this problem.

On the most miserable day the weather could concoct, Sue bravely drove south to meet Phillipa for the great Christmas gift exchange. Poor Phillipa drew the short straw, not only battling storms sweeping up from the Channel, but also feeling rather poorly herself. The following day, after a doctor’s visit, she spent a few days in the hospital. Fortunately, the NHS (with a little help from Father Christmas) patched her up and released her just in time for Christmas.

Sarah dashed up to Sheffield (via Nottingham), in such a hurry to get back for the festivities that she managed to leave Lee’s Christmas presents behind. This meant an unscheduled detour back to her digs to rescue them. She also called in at Thurcroft to check on Nan’s house, which was thankfully still standing.

Midweek, we had a surprise flying visit from Dawn and Nicky, who’d driven down from Thurcroft to deliver Nan’s presents. They popped in to see us for half an hour before heading home again. I was outside chopping logs like some sort of festive lumberjack, so I didn’t see much of them.

Christmas Eve: The ailing Rothwells turned up, bringing with them a delightful cocktail of chest and tummy bugs, the perfect festive gift. They were closely followed by Nan, and later that evening, Jamie rolled in, proudly presenting his contribution to the germ exchange: a chest cold, topped off with a spectacular mouth ulcer.

In the morning, I prepared my traditional Chestnut Soup to set the seasonal mood. This year, I went rogue and tried Jamie Oliver’s recipe instead of my usual one. To everyone’s surprise (and mild relief), it was rather good, and nobody asked for a bucket afterwards, which I count as a win.

In years gone by, we’ve bundled off to Kettering for an evening of ten-pin bowling, but with Ellis still being pint-sized and mischievous, we brought the entertainment indoors. The lounge became our bowling alley, courtesy of the ‘Connect’ and projector screen, which provided all the drama without any of the special shoes.

Later that night, Santa did his usual stealthy work, and by morning the tree was buried under a colourful avalanche of parcels.

This year saw a change of personnel in the gift-delivery department. After years of faithfully playing Santa, Sarah decided that at the ripe old age of nineteen, she was ready to hang up her elf boots and pass the role on to me.

I quickly discovered her logic: when you’re the one handing out the presents, you don’t get to open your own. No sooner has someone ripped the paper off one gift than they’re already badgering you for the next. It’s less “Merry Christmas” and more “Next parcel, please!”

My cunning solution was to build a small stockpile of my gifts in one corner and save them for later. Once the paper-storm had settled and the others were knee-deep in packaging, I could finally sit down and open mine in peace.

With the presents opened, the mountain of wrapping paper bagged up, and the gifts stacked into neat little piles (some looking suspiciously more like fortresses than piles), the girls and Sue launched into Christmas Dinner preparations.

I’m not entirely sure how the division of labour was decided, but somehow this year’s operation ran like a well-oiled machine, or at least a slightly less chaotic one. The workload didn’t all fall on Sue’s shoulders, which she no doubt considered a minor Christmas miracle.

The meal itself was every bit as delicious as tradition demands, with Jamie’s turkey stealing the show, perfectly cooked and proudly centre stage on the plate.

During the afternoon, we amused ourselves with whatever new toys and gadgets Santa had delivered. He’d very generously brought Suraj and me a Tablet PC each, so we spent a good while prodding screens, swiping aimlessly and trying to work out what on earth they could actually do.

That evening, we gathered round the big screen for the traditional Doctor Who Christmas episode. Sadly, it turned out to be a bit of a damp squib; the plot was more far-fetched than usual, veering into the downright silly at times. Even the turkey had more substance.

Later that night, we wrapped up warmly and stepped outside to release a Chinese lantern into the skies above Harborough. Earlier in the day, we had each scribbled down a wish, sealed it in an envelope, and tucked it inside the lantern. The night was crisp, and for once, the endless rain gave us a reprieve. After a slightly farcical battle with the lighter, the flame finally took hold, and up it drifted, glowing serenely over the rooftops. I fully expect the Harborough Mail to report it next week under the headline: “UFO Sighting on Christmas Day.”

Boxing Day brought an unexpected twist: illness struck! Poor Lucas was laid low with a troublesome stomach, so Suraj nobly volunteered to stay behind in Harborough to nurse him, while the rest of us pressed on with our plans and headed to Peterborough for a spot of traditional greyhound racing.

As usual, the dogs were far cleverer than we were. There were moments when a big win seemed to be within our grasp, but each time the finish line came and went with our wallets still stubbornly empty. We returned home with lighter pockets but our dignity (just about) intact.

Happily, by the time we arrived back that evening, Lucas had perked up considerably. Sarah, meanwhile, had deviated north to Nottingham to celebrate Lee’s birthday, a date we all agreed showed questionable timing on his parents’ part. She reappeared the following morning, none the worse for it.

The following evening, we ventured to Corby for a production of Aladdin. Poor Charlotte had succumbed to Lucas’s tummy bug and wasn’t feeling her sparkling best, but she soldiered on and came along regardless, a true pantomime trooper.

This year, we’d struck gold with our seats: right at the very front. What a difference from the distant, neck-craning view of previous years! The boys were utterly enthralled from curtain-up to final bow, their attention held not only by the action on stage but also by the pyrotechnics, which were set off practically at our feet.

Each unexpected bang and flash provoked fresh shrieks of excitement, and with the special effects so close we half expected someone to hand us a fire extinguisher. Suffice to say, no one was nodding off in this panto.

That night Jamie returned to his apartment, duty calling him back to work the following day, while Nan retreated to hers in search of a little peace and quiet (and probably a germ-free zone).

The days that followed were dominated by relentless rain, which washed away any hopes of outdoor adventures. Still, the post-Christmas sales beckoned. While others braved the shops, Sue and I took the wiser option of staying behind and enjoying some quieter time with the boys. I gave them a dose of fresh air at the park, and when we got back, Sue corralled them into the lounge with a jigsaw puzzle, a cosy antidote to the dreary drizzle outside.

Our next “expedition” was something a bit different: geocaching. A couple of weeks earlier, I’d looked up a few local caches and stored the coordinates in my GPS, hoping Christmas would be the perfect excuse to hunt them down. Charlotte, Sarah, and the boys were game, so one drizzly afternoon off we went.

The first cache turned out to be hidden in the Square in the centre of Harborough, a place I must have walked past a thousand times without realising. Buoyed by that triumph, we pressed on to Symington’s Recreation Park, which was dark, wet, and only questionably welcoming. After rummaging through bushes by the glow of nearly-dead phone batteries, we finally unearthed our second prize.

It was such unexpected fun that I went ahead and paid the annual fee to join the geocaching community properly, unlocking access to a whole world of hidden treasures just waiting to be found.

I had earmarked a geocache in Lubenham for the holidays, but the weather had other ideas. At last, on the first chilly yet mercifully dry afternoon, Suraj, Charlotte, Sarah, the boys, and I set off to the Village Hall to begin the hunt. This one was no simple box-under-a-bench job; it required us to visit five different locations around the village, collect clues, and then apply a fiendish formula to pinpoint the final cache.

We managed the clue-gathering with aplomb, but when it came to the grand finale, the cache remained stubbornly elusive. With fingers frozen and enthusiasm ebbing, we admitted defeat and sought consolation in the village pub. A drink later, spirits restored, we vowed to return, and having since worked out where we went wrong, we fully intend to.

The Rothwells stayed with us right up until New Year’s Eve. That afternoon, we all gathered for our final family meal of 2012 at the Roebuck, a new pub just outside Harborough. Once home, I nipped out with Sarah’s car tyre to ATS for a free puncture repair (my good deed to round off the year). Meanwhile, Charlotte and Suraj attempted the impossible feat of squeezing an entire festive haul of presents and clothes into the car. To my surprise, they succeeded, though I’m fairly sure the laws of physics are still reviewing the case. After hugs and goodbyes, they departed, and soon after, Sarah headed to Lee’s to see in the New Year.

That left Sue and me in a strangely quiet house, no chatter, no washing up, no frantic drying. We enjoyed the novelty of watching whatever we fancied on TV and were tucked up in bed by 10 p.m. Yes, 10 p.m.! No Auld Lang Syne (I’ve never been fond of arm-linking and mumbling Burns), no forced jollity. I stirred briefly at midnight when the fireworks went off, but Sue slept serenely through.

New Year’s Day dawned bright but chilly, and best of all, hangover-free. A fine way to start 2013.