5th February 2014

Since my last blog, there’s been only the briefest of reprieves from what can only be described as meteorological misery. Gales, storms, and even a hurricane have been enthusiastically lashing the UK, flinging buckets of water at us with all the subtlety of a toddler with a Super Soaker. Somerset, in particular, has more or less reinvented itself as the Venice of the West Country, though without the gondolas, and with rather more cows.

Here in Harborough, we’ve had it comparatively easy. Yes, the sky has been the colour of lead for weeks, gleefully emptying itself upon us with almost daily dedication, and yes, the ground is now so saturated that even ducks are looking for wellies. But somehow, the Welland has behaved itself. Only once has it reached the top of its lowest bank, an achievement I feel deserves a round of applause for the river authorities and Harborough Council, who’ve kept the ditches and drains clear enough to allow the water to escape downstream without turning us into Atlantis. Fingers crossed it stays that way.

Even as I write this, the rain is battering the windows yet again, and the wind is howling so loudly it is drowning out the telly. To add insult to injury, the security light insists on flicking on every five minutes, convinced that a swirling leaf is a burglar. Our curtains now glow like a Soho nightclub.

Well, miracle of miracles, we had not one, but two consecutive days of sunshine. Proper sunshine. Out of the blue, into the blue. Having grown accustomed to cycling my old Saracen through every form of precipitation known to humanity, imagine my shock one morning when the curtains parted to reveal a blazing golden disc perched over next door’s chimney. I believe the ancient civilisations called it the sun. I do believe they used to worship it.

What bliss it was to pedal the lanes of Leicestershire beneath clear skies. True, the fields, paths and bridleways remain out of bounds; my optimistic attempt to venture off-road quickly proved that tyres do not, in fact, rotate when the ground beneath them turns into industrial-strength adhesive. But no matter. For two whole days, we had a taste of summer, and after the season we’ve had, that felt positively tropical.

Filled with a reckless surge of optimism, I launched myself at the allotments with vigour. First came the raspberries, which endured a brisk pruning. Then I disappeared among the vines, chatting amiably to each plant as though they were old friends. I assured them of my grand ambitions to produce a superb vintage, though in fairness, my wine-making skills are still developing.

As for the leeks, ah, the leeks. Planting more than 500 was, in retrospect, an act of agricultural folly on a scale that only the British weather could expose. A winter that stunted almost everything else allowed the leeks to thrive, and I now find myself with specimens boasting stems as thick as my wrist. Delicious though they may be, there are only so many ways one can enthusiastically consume them. One day last week saw leek and potato soup, followed by leek and ham pie, and I even flirted with the idea of a leek and pear tart (though I suspect even Heston Blumenthal might draw the line there).

Thankfully, Huntingdon Gardens has provided a much-needed outlet for my surplus. Nan, armed with a steady supply of these monster leeks, has become something of a celebrity among her fellow residents. It seems nothing fosters popularity in a retirement community quite like the ability to provide industrial-scale quantities of a versatile vegetable.

Last week I’d arranged for John Lee to come and stay over, with grand plans involving a few pubs, a hearty meal, and then a bracing long walk the following morning. Naturally, the weather gods had other ideas. The storm that blew through was less “refreshing country ramble” and more “Noah’s Ark recruitment drive,” so the walk was swiftly abandoned. After cancelling, I was left with a free day, and I indulged in that rarest of luxuries, a leisurely mooch around Harborough.

It was there, in the Square, that I stumbled upon a bedding stall. Now, most people would give it a polite glance and move on. Not me. Oh no. I began waxing lyrical to the poor stallholder about the unparalleled wonders of my beloved Mr Pillow. To my astonishment, he not only knew exactly what I meant but was every bit as passionate about it. After showing me a few pleasant-enough pillows (nice, but not Mr Pillow), I casually mentioned that mine resided on a cruise ship. His eyebrow shot up. “Cunard, by any chance?” he asked. Then, with a conspiratorial air, he promised he had just the thing. And lo and behold, he did!

Returning home with my spoils, I found Charlotte and Ellis there with Nan, just back from lunch. Naturally, I introduced them to the newcomer. A brief test-rest later, and they were instantly converted. Within the hour, they’d both dashed off to secure their own slice of Cunard comfort. That night, as we each lay our weary heads upon our new pillows, we felt like a family united in luxury, a dynasty of dreamers, if you will.

The following Friday, I went to see Tigers lose to Bath at Welford Road, accompanied by Jack Hartley (yes, his initials are indeed J.R. Hartley, but he doesn’t fish), Peter Cooper, and Jim Hankers. In passing, I mentioned Mr Pillow. The next day, at the Rugby Club for the England v France match, I discovered Jim had also fallen under its spell and was now the proud owner of some Cunard magic. England may have lost in the dying seconds, but really, what of it? Victory in the land of nod is worth far more.

As if that weren’t enough, word reached me that my face had made it onto Sky Sports during the match. Several club stalwarts spotted me in the crowd. Alas, despite magnanimously offering, nobody wanted my autograph. Fame, it seems, is a fickle friend and short-lived

On the 8th of February, I drove Sarah to Cottgrave, where she changed cars and headed back to university with Lee.

The following day, I dug up some spare raspberries from my allotment and helped Charlotte plant them in hers. To improve the soil structure at my own Douglas Drive patch, I’d been busy turning it over and digging in compost from my heap. Unfortunately, in the process, I unearthed a hibernating hedgehog. After a brief moment of guilt (and some profuse apologies), I wrapped Mrs Tiggywinkle in my bobble-hat and brought her home for a bit of TLC.

By sheer luck, next door had an old hedgehog house lying unused, its previous occupants having met a watery end years ago after an ill-advised dip in my pool. I lined it with shredded paper, tucked Mrs Tiggywinkle inside, and placed it snugly beneath a hedge in the garden. The following morning, before my cycle ride, I peeped in. She was gone, but mercifully not floating face down in the pool. I’ll take that as a happy ending.

Meanwhile, my Kiwi friend Peter has been dealing with a long-running issue. Years ago, he had serious brain surgery after an accident, which has left him with a speech difficulty; to those who don’t know him, he can sound rather like he’s had a few too many. One morning after a ride, I popped over to help him phone Sky Sports about a cancelled contract. He’d been getting quite upset about it all week, unable to make sense of the situation. Thankfully, after a bit of patient explaining, we got it all sorted.

Later that week, I drove him to Kettering Hospital for a re-arranged appointment. Rather than sitting in the car park twiddling my thumbs and waiting, I nipped over to Charlotte’s for a coffee. She wasn’t feeling her best; an unsettled tummy had kept her up half the night, but she seemed to perk up once Dad arrived. She even sent me away with a dozen fresh eggs from her “girls,” which I shared between Peter and myself. Proof, if any were needed, that chickens really are the most reliable of friends.

Today we had ducks in the swimming pool. A mallard couple, no less, he resplendent in his green finery, she a little more understated, spent a merry morning paddling round in endless circuits. Every so often, they’d hop out, strut about like VIPs surveying their private lido, and then plop back in for another lap. They looked so perfectly at home that I half-expected them to ask for sunbeds and a round of cocktails. If they stick around until summer, perhaps we’ll invite them to the BBQ. We do, after all, have oranges; it could be quite the spread.

Meanwhile, Jamie has had a far less amusing encounter with urban wildlife. He was delivering meat to a butcher in Birmingham, a place ironically just around the corner from the infamous street where Channel 4 filmed its controversial series Benefit Street. While returning with an extra order, he heard his van alarm shriek. On rushing out, he found the side window smashed and his briefcase gone, wallet, delivery paperwork and all.

By some miracle, the thieves missed the real treasures: £2,500 in the glove compartment, his phone left on the passenger seat, and the SatNav sitting brazenly on the dashboard. A criminal masterclass this was not. After contacting the police, he had to wait for another van before finishing the day’s round. Fortunately, his cards and suchlike were all covered by the family’s trusty CPP insurance.

The irony of the day was that Jamie had just been told by his boss that he was being promoted to Transport Manager. No more long days on the road, he’ll be mostly office-bound from now on. One can’t help wondering whether his boss has a touch of second sight.