9th September 2013

The weather has been remarkably obliging, and as a result, the fruit and veg are flourishing like prize-winners at the Chelsea Flower Show. Local farmers, clearly inspired by my humble efforts, have had their combines buzzing non-stop around Harborough for a fortnight. Meanwhile, Sue and I have stuck with our trusty buckets, Tesco bags, and the occasional Tupperware, proof, if any were needed, that fancy machinery is overrated when you’ve got supermarket carrier bags to hand.

Last Saturday, Paul Bissell and I resurrected my inflatable canoe and paddled from Harborough to the Black Horse at Foxton. Paul, a canoeing novice, spent the early stages of the voyage performing an elegant series of pirouettes before finally grasping the idea of teamwork. Jim Crawford briefly joined us on his bike but, unimpressed by our glacial pace, pedalled off home before his beard grew long enough to braid. By the time dusk fell, Paul (at the back) was distinctly soggy, while I (at the front) remained smugly dry. One quick pint later, refreshing, if not remotely isotonic, Sue appeared to whisk us back to warm baths and steaming mugs.

The Rothwells, meanwhile, took themselves off on a nostalgic jaunt to Newark, catching up with old friends and revisiting their favourite Indian restaurant before heading to Skegness. There they camped in the same caravan Sue and I had braved the week before. Two days of seaside fun, topped off with, naturally, more glorious weather.

On their return, we marked Charlotte’s big birthday with a family BBQ. Jamie manned the grill, producing steaks and ribs fit for a Texan ranch. But the true highlight came during pudding, when Charlotte went full Incredible Hulk, destroying a garden bench. Whoever said dessert doesn’t put the weight on had clearly never met our Charlotte.

The celebrations rolled neatly into Charlotte and Suraj’s wedding anniversary, swiftly followed by Suraj’s birthday, one round of festivities neatly covering both. For his birthday treat, he and I went to see Elysium at the Odeon in Kettering, an excellent choice if dystopian epics float your boat. I rounded off the week with golf, first with Andy and his mate, then later with Suraj, thus proving that I am at least consistent, if not skilful.

Sarah, meanwhile, has been hard at work at the Rugby Club, padding the bank balance ahead of her return to university. She’s moving into digs in Sheffield and, in a bold cost-cutting measure, has declared her car officially off-road. She intends to walk to lectures, at least until Sheffield’s hills convince her otherwise.

Not all news has been light-hearted. Sue and I attended the funeral of Karen Perry, the wife of my long-time rugby mate Sean. Her sudden passing was a shock. Sean gave a moving eulogy, and the packed church was a fitting tribute to her. Later, in true tradition, we raised a glass in her memory. Sean even turned up for our usual pool night, though he understandably drifted off more than once mid-frame.

The next day, I embarked on what the girls optimistically christened a “road trip” to Thurcroft with Charlotte and Sarah. In reality, it involved sandwiches, an estate agent, and a solicitor, hardly Route 66. Even our attempt at retail therapy failed, as we bought nothing at either the shoe warehouse or the catalogue outlets. Back at the house, Charlotte and I opted for a “high-energy nap,” while Sarah resorted to her Wii for entertainment.

The evening’s highlight was a pub meal at the Traveller’s Rest. I watched England v Moldova while the girls tackled the pool table. Back home, I returned to the football while they invented “Surf the Lilo” down the stairs, proof, if ever it were needed, that inflatable furniture is wasted on grown-ups.

Rain poured all day, which at least matched the pace of our “road trip.” At 3 a.m., I was rudely awakened by the clatter of pans as the girls conducted their bizarre “hot-water bottle migration” ritual from bed to lilo and back. Meanwhile, in my quarters, I tried in vain to salvage some sleep.

The following morning saw us carting Sarah’s belongings downstairs in readiness for the big move, including Nan’s massage bed, ingenious in design but heavy as a small elephant. Somehow, we wrangled it into the kitchen without demolishing the house.

After a restorative walk and a brief foray into Geocaching, we fuelled up on fish and chips before finally moving Sarah into her digs. The student population appeared almost entirely Chinese, leaving Sarah in a distinct minority, and me wondering if British students had become an endangered species.

Once Sarah was settled, Charlotte and I loaded Nan’s bed into the car and drove back to Harborough, wedged between various household relics. A strong coffee later, our mission was complete.

The next day was Lubenham Scarecrow Day, and the Rothwells joined us for the festivities. We strolled through the village, admired the scarecrows, sampled the stalls, and endured the autumnal nip in the air. Nan, having had her fill, was taken home around lunchtime, leaving me free to enjoy the first rugby match of the season with friends.

By evening, the lounge resembled a small cinema as Jim, Sean, Dominic, Peter, Roger, and I set up the projector and screen for the Tigers’ game. The rugby wasn’t exactly a thriller, but we got the win. Sean, still quiet and even declining a beer, was clearly running on empty.

Later, Jamie popped in with £400, which I gratefully accepted before he ruined the illusion by asking me to change it into Euros for his Gran Canaria trip. One day, perhaps, he’ll hand me cash without expecting it back.

Next Saturday, I’m off to see David in Bulgaria; let’s hope they don’t make me paddle there in the canoe.