18th June 2013

On the 23rd of May, Sarah headed back to Sheffield for a university friend’s wedding. The next day, I boarded a Tigers’ supporters’ bus to Twickenham for the Aviva Premiership final against Saints. Thanks to a road accident in Northampton (Saints HQ, of all places), we were stuck in traffic for four hours. Plans had to change, so instead of our usual pre-match haunt, we settled for the Harlequin’s Hog Roast Tent. Pork baps and Guinness kept spirits high, and our tigerish heroes on the pitch duly avenged our delay by thrashing Northampton.

The journey home was equally eventful, courtesy of an overturned caravan on the M25. I’d put money on another Northampton driver.

Sarah returned on Monday for half-term. That Saturday, she joined Sue and me on a council-led ramble around Hallaton, ending with a well-earned lunch at the Bewick Arms. The following day, we set off to Harbury, Warwickshire, to visit relatives Andrew and Sue, who, along with half the village, were opening their gardens. On arrival, we were greeted by what can only be described as a marathon wheelbarrow race. Country folk do have peculiar hobbies; personally, I prefer using mine for compost.

Andrew’s garden was in fine fettle, and the cakes on offer were apparently excellent (they vanished before I reached them). We wandered through what felt like every garden in Harbury, chatting to proud owners about plants, ponds, and pigeons, of which Harbury has far too many. Miraculously, the weather was glorious.

Later in the week, Sarah and I drove to Thurcroft. She had an activity day at uni, while I had a date with an Eon engineer to service the boiler. I spent the day mowing, trimming, digging, and even managed a trip to the dump with a decrepit table and telly. By the time Sarah returned, Thurcroft was vaguely respectable again.

The rest of the week saw her wrestling with her final essay of the year, which I proofread and confidently predicted would earn top marks. It did, First class! We celebrated with a family BBQ, Nan inviting along her friend Isabel, who fitted in splendidly.

The Lions tour in Australia was also underway. I contrived to miss the first three games, but on 8th June finally managed to catch a live match at The Angel over breakfast. The Reds were battered, the beer flowed at the Lord Nelson’s festival later that day, and England capped it all off by thrashing Argentina in Rio. A vintage Saturday.

Sarah had her own “vintage Saturday” the next day at Wembley, immersed in a wall of music and her favourite bands. A few days later, I took her to East Midlands Airport for a flight to Amsterdam with uni friends, while I retreated to Nan’s to watch the Lions via Sky and strong coffee.

Domestic life intruded midweek, Sue swapped duties with me so she could lunch with Lynne Brown, leaving me babysitting a workman repairing Jamie’s window. Three hours of daytime TV later, I’d discovered it’s possible to die of boredom without actually expiring.

Thursday brought a delightful walk around Wansford with John Lee. We lunched at the Paper Mills pub while waiting for his son Nick, who’d forgotten to pick him up. No great hardship; another pint solved that.

Back home, Sue and I joined Harborough Film Club for Flight. Decent enough, though Denzel Washington won’t be troubling the BAFTA judges. Saturday saw another breakfast at The Angel with the two Jims and Roger, timed perfectly to catch the Lions mauling New South Wales.

Sunday was a double celebration: Father’s Day and Nan’s birthday. We feasted at the Cinnamon Lounge, which frankly ought to rename itself “Tiger’s Way” in honour of recent triumphs. Afterwards, we wandered round the Fernie Hunt Open Day, stroking foxhounds (loud, smelly, and best avoided if you value your eardrums), dodging wayward birds of prey, and indulging in Joules wellies, target shooting, and ice cream. Rural life in all its glory.

On Monday, Sarah and Charlotte treated Nan to high tea at Kilworth House Hotel. Sarah, meanwhile, wrestled with her InterRail itinerary, while Charlotte and Nan tucked into dainty cakes and posh tea. I suspect Sarah would have preferred the cake.

Elsewhere, drama struck when Jamie’s ex, Harley, had an unfortunate encounter with a brick wall at 50mph in Husband’s Bosworth. Thankfully, she survived, though hospitalised for a couple of weeks. Jamie visited, even joining her family for Sunday lunch, which was kind of them.

Jamie himself has been playing host to Walker, a mate in need of temporary digs. They’ve clearly been enjoying domestic life; we’ve barely seen Jamie. But Walker’s moving into his own place soon, so Jamie may once again grace us with his presence (and laundry).

Sarah’s been funding her travels with marathon shifts at the Rugby Club, starting at lunchtime and finishing sometime around sunrise. Charlotte, meanwhile, has turned into Monty Don. Her front and back gardens are flourishing despite her two miniature plant-destroyers (Lucas and Ellis), and she’s even branched out into the allotment. A shed has appeared, ostensibly for tools, though I suspect it doubles as a time-out chamber for unruly children.

The chicks have hatched, five in total, though Pepper the cat quickly reduced that number to four. Clearly underfed, or simply a fan of fresh poultry. The survivors are now housed in a chicken run and coop that Peter and I built under Charlotte’s strict instructions. It’s fox-proof, badger-proof, and child-proof. Dalek-proof remains untested. Charlotte is threatening razor wire for extra security, but I think she’s joking… probably.

Nan, meanwhile, has been trialling new glasses. We had to return them to Specsavers for adjustments, the staff there seemed oddly nervous. I suspect her Yorkshire/Welsh wit may have something to do with it. She and Isabel also sampled lunch at the Three Swans, but Nan declared both food and service a flop. I’m quietly relieved I wasn’t there to confirm it.