17th November 2014

As the title suggests, there have been rather a lot of hospital visits lately, and not one of them without incident! Nan, now a sprightly 86, has a body that is understandably giving up on its warranty. The NHS, bless it, is valiantly throwing everything at her in terms of support, technology and paperwork. I suspect Nan alone may be single-handedly responsible for the current NHS resourcing crisis.

On the 6th of October, I kicked off a string of medical outings with her. First stop was Harborough Medical Centre for a blood test, followed by a trip up the road to Kettering Hospital for a specialist consultation. My social life these days appears to consist mostly of waiting rooms, car parks, and overhearing other people’s very loud conversations about their bunions.

By the 21st, we were back in Harborough Hospital, then again off to Kettering on the 27th. Long ago, I decided to sync Nan’s appointments into my online diary, complete with emails and texts to nag me into compliance. Not that the NHS don’t try their hardest, mostly Nan receives a snowstorm of reminder letters, though sometimes she gets a cryptic phone call instead, occasionally followed by a letter if the postman’s in a good mood. I have trained Nan to phone me the minute one of these calls comes through, so I can pop the details straight into my diary. Occasionally, however, she can’t quite remember what the appointment was for. Still, with date, time, and place in hand, each trip had a pleasing air of mystery, a sort of “medical lucky dip.”

On the 31st, we squeezed in a doctor’s visit, then on the 3rd of November, it was back to Kettering once more, and this one turned into a proper drama. The week before, I’d been laid low with cystitis. The prescribed antibiotics seemed to be about as effective as Smarties, and the bugs made their presence felt with metronomic reliability every 20 minutes. By Nan’s appointment, however, I was feeling just about well enough to risk leaving the house without memorising the location of every public loo in Northamptonshire.

True to form, the hospital car park was rammed, with queues stretching back down the road. I dropped Nan at reception and went off in search of a space in some godforsaken overflow car park. On returning to the hospital, I wandered towards the Endoscopy department only to find a group of nurses fussing over an old lady in a chair in the corridor. To my horror, it was Nan.

Over the years, I’ve seen enough broken limbs to know what I was looking at. Poor Nan, already wobbly on her feet thanks to neuropathy and double vision, admitted she’d been distracted by a passing gaggle of young interns. Down she went, like a tree felled in slow motion. Eight and a half hours later, I finally got her home with one arm newly plastered and the promised endoscopy abandoned. We’ll have to attempt that joy again another day.

The following Monday, it was back to Kettering to check on her fracture. Naturally, it had shifted and had to be reset. Another Monday saw us return yet again, after first diverting to Harborough Cottage Hospital for an appointment that apparently only existed in someone’s imagination. This time, mercifully, she was discharged for another four weeks. I allowed myself a quiet “phew.”

Meanwhile, Friday the 14th of November’s planned family curry night never happened. Sarah was in Nottingham, and the Rothwells cried off with illness. The boys, Lucas and Ellis, had been poorly. What we first thought was a routine sickness bug in Ellis turned out to be something nastier. By Saturday, he was admitted to Northampton Hospital with breathing difficulties. A cocktail of diarrhoea, tonsillitis, dehydration and scarlet fever left him very poorly indeed. Charlotte camped out with him for the weekend, thankfully in a private room, sparing them both the chaos of the main ward.

As of the 17th, both Lucas and Ellis were still in the hospital, though things were looking brighter. Ellis had finally been taken off the drip that had been topping up his lost fluids, and the nurses were encouraging him to drink under his own steam. He even managed a sandwich in the afternoon, proof, if ever it were needed, that recovery is on the way. Later that same afternoon, he was discharged, to the great relief of everyone concerned.

Sarah and Lee, meanwhile, have been busy in the noble sport of house hunting – an activity not for the faint-hearted. Their previous contender in Loughborough fell at the first hurdle after the surveyor delivered a report that read more like a horror story than a structural assessment. Sensibly, they decided to pass.

On the 10th, we joined them for a jaunt to East Leake in Nottinghamshire, where another property had caught their eye. We’d planned a walk to get a feel for the area. East Leake turned out to be a charming village (or small town, depending on who you ask), and our pre-viewing stroll to neighbouring West Leake was most enjoyable. The weather obliged, and the pub at the end of the walk was perfectly placed.

Suitably refreshed, we had a wander round the centre of East Leake, which impressed us with its tidy appearance and sense of community. By just after 5 pm, we met Lee and the estate agent at the property itself. It turned out to be quite a substantial house in seemingly good condition, the sort of place you could imagine making a home, though whether it will survive the inevitable forensic survey remains to be seen.

Sarah and Lee made an offer on the East Leake property, subject to survey, and were delighted when it was accepted. Sadly, delight turned to disappointment once the surveyor had wielded his clipboard. The report flagged a host of expensive nasties: asbestos debris in the loft, dodgy wiring crying out for a complete re-do, and modernisation so poorly done it might as well have been undone. The surveyor’s advice was short and to the point. Don’t buy. A shame, but Sarah and Lee are sensible enough to keep their feet firmly on the ground, and they’re back on the hunt, widening the search area with determination.

Meanwhile, Sue and I have stumbled upon a new pleasure, the Odeon in Kettering runs “Silver Screen” showings on Wednesday mornings. For the princely sum of £3, you get a film, free coffee, and biscuits. Why they call it “Silver Screen” is beyond me, surely not a reference to the hair colour of the audience. We went on the 15th for our first outing and found it packed to the rafters, clearly a popular event. Charlotte accompanied Sue for the next couple of visits, as I had foolishly double-booked myself with walks alongside John Lee.

Speaking of hauntings, our central heating boiler has once again taken on supernatural qualities. About this time last year, it behaved as though possessed by a poltergeist, loud banging, as though something trapped inside was trying to claw its way out. The unwelcome guest has returned. Naturally, we called EON to arrange an exorcism, but, as with all supernatural phenomena, the spirit refused to perform when the gas priest arrived. After some ritualistic muttering and flushing of pipes, it quietened for a while, only to return with a vengeance days later. Another priest has been summoned, and in the meantime, I’ve taken the precaution of surrounding the boiler with garlic and crucifixes. Can’t be too careful.

As for my walks with John, we’ve ventured to Langham, Yarwell and Warmington (not on sea, sadly). The weather has been kind, and the food excellent. Yarwell served up outstanding steak and kidney puddings that would tempt anyone to relocate. Warmington was memorable for another reason: we stumbled upon a village game shop. I walked away with a brace of oak-smoked pheasant and partridge for the bargain price of £5. John, meanwhile, was delighted to discover they’d smoke his trout for £8 a fish, a significant saving on the £15 he normally pays in Bristol. Considering his freezer is crammed full of trout, he left like he’d just won the lottery.

On the 28th, fresh from a stint in hospital, we had Lucas and Ellis for the day. Sue whisked them off to Wicksteed Park in the morning, while in the afternoon, I joined the party at Harborough Museum. The boys were particularly taken with the interactive floor in the adjoining library, gleefully leaping about and squashing digital bugs as though auditioning for a new video game. Afterwards, they were rewarded with a trip to the new ice-cream parlour in town, proof that, in the eyes of children, culture and history are all very well, but nothing quite beats sprinkles and a cone.

On the 1st of November, David and Genya paid Nan a flying visit. Fresh back from Bulgaria, they were dashing about gathering supplies before returning in their new van. I joined them at Nan’s in the morning for a good catch-up on Bulgarian life, which sounded just as lively as ever.

That same afternoon, Peter Cooper and I lent a hand to Jim Hankers with his bungalow kitchen renovations, or more accurately, demolition. We eagerly knocked down a wall, which seemed to embolden Jim to suggest we do the same in the lounge. Oddly, whenever David is around, I find myself roped into smashing bits of houses. At least this time, I wasn’t obliged to make my own tea or bed down amidst the rubble. Later that evening, however, Jim’s DIY enthusiasm went one step too far. While shuffling units about, he managed to send his crockery crashing to the floor, leaving him with a total of two plates intact. Bridget, conveniently away in Spain with her sister at the time, was due back the following morning. I imagine her delight at this turn of events was… limited.

On the 3rd, Jamie set off for Amsterdam with a new friend, Amy. They took the ferry from Newcastle and returned the following Wednesday, apparently having seen a fair number of the sights. However, judging by the silence since, they must have decided they weren’t quite destined for each other. Amsterdam may be the city of canals, but clearly not the city of romance, at least not on this occasion.

On the morning of the 8th, Sue, Charlotte, Sarah and I joined a council-organised walk around Tilton-on-the-Hill, followed by a very welcome lunch in Billesdon. Suitably fortified, I spent the afternoon watching rugby in the Angel, before heading out in the evening with Sue to Brixworth to celebrate Frank Johnson’s 50th birthday. It was a pleasure to catch up with Jeremy Brown, Robin Blades and their wives; plenty of family news was exchanged, though the majority of the evening was, naturally, spent reminiscing about rugby glories past (and conveniently forgetting the defeats).

On the 9th, Suraj and I went to see Interstellar in Kettering. It started rather frustratingly, wordy, far-fetched, and guaranteed to irritate anyone with a shred of scientific knowledge. However, once I surrendered to the spectacle in the second half, I found myself swept along quite happily, marvelling once again at how the Americans always seem to manage to save humanity just in the nick of time. The following evening, Suraj, Jamie, Jim, and I gathered at the Bottom Locks Inn in Foxton for their splendid Pie Night. The rule was simple: excellent pies, and as many as you could eat. Needless to say, we all embraced the challenge and vowed to return. Jamie, in fact, wasted no time and booked himself back in for the following week.

On the 12th, Charlotte joined Sue and me on a trip to Sheffield to see Sarah awarded her BA (Hons) at the City Hall. After parking in a nearby multi-storey, we tracked her and Lee down in a Wetherspoons, polishing off a pre-ceremony lunch. Once Sarah went off to don her gown, we wandered the city centre in search of a suitable venue for a celebratory meal later.

By half past two, we were seated in the concert hall, ready for the grand ceremony. The Chancellor, Lord Winston, handed Sarah her degree, along with what felt like a million other students. The event seemed to last an eternity, and my poor little hands were thoroughly clapped out by the end. Still, the sense of pride more than made up for it. We were all delighted to see Sarah reach such a milestone.

After the obligatory photographs outside and Sarah’s goodbyes to her friends, we made our way to a nearby Brazilian restaurant for a celebratory feast. The service was unlike anything we’d experienced before: twelve different meats were paraded around at regular intervals, each one offered to you every few minutes. Diners controlled proceedings with a little card, green for “yes, please” and red for “no more, I beg you.”

Not that meat was the only option. There were at least twenty salads, plus stews and casseroles, all waiting to tempt the sensible eater. Naturally, I ignored them in favour of the carnivorous challenge and managed to sample thirteen meats. Charlotte, however, put me to shame, polishing off fourteen. From an early age, she was always a ravenous carnivore, and clearly, nothing has changed.

Grotesquely over-stuffed, we waddled back to our cars and set off on our homeward journeys: us to Harborough, Sarah and Lee back to Nottinghamshire. I suspect none of us needed to eat again until at least the following Tuesday.

Saturday saw me at a VP’s luncheon at the rugby club, where the food was hearty, the company lively, and the conversation mainly about how England might actually win something one day. Later, we had the dubious pleasure of watching England lose yet another rugby match on TV, this time to South Africa. Morale was restored in the evening, however, when England’s footballers (of all people!) beat Slovenia. A rare moment when the round ball came to the rescue of the oval.

In more domestic news, I’ve spent the last month or so turning the house into something approaching a data centre. Having lost a batch of family photographs to a failed hard drive last year, I’ve been on a mission to ensure it never happens again. The result: the whole place is now networked to share a 2TB drive through both Ethernet and WiFi. All the photos, films and music are safely stored there, with a backup copy on a 1TB pen drive that can be accessed from any PC, tablet, laptop or mobile in the house.

I briefly toyed with the idea of making the collection accessible over the internet for when we’re away, but decided that was far too risky; the last thing I want is our holiday snaps going viral for the wrong reasons. Instead, for maximum belt-and-braces reassurance, I’ve also copied the entire collection onto DVDs. The family archives are now so well protected that the British Library would be proud.