28th December 2017
Sarah seemed to have weathered the worst after her spell in hospital, while Sue appeared to have turned a corner once the antibiotics started to work their magic. We’d kept the rest of the family at bay to avoid exchanging any more bugs, or, worse, making the poorly even more ill. Fortunately, the strategy seemed to pay off.
We permitted Lee to drop Mia off for the day (on the assumption that canine germs don’t cross over to humans), Jamie to deliver the Christmas meat, and Charlotte, on our behalf, to brave the madness of Harborough’s shops for the annual food shop. Her mission: to procure enough festive provisions to keep the family gathering fed and fuelled. Apparently, the male brain is considered unequal to the subtleties of such complex operations, so my services weren’t requested. That said, I do feel my ability to keep the house running, prepare all meals while Sue was in bed, and remain both upright and moderately sane deserves at least an honourable mention.
On the 19th, I triumphantly returned the blood pressure monitor to the surgery. Despite the heavy burden of domestic management, my readings had remained perfectly normal over the week, proof, I felt, that my blood pressure is made of sterner stuff than I am. That same afternoon, I chauffeured Sue to St Luke’s, Harborough’s shiny new hospital, for a chest X-ray, before returning her safely home and heading straight out again to a past colleague’s leaving do at Farndon Fields Primary.
It was a delight to see retired colleagues who, unlike myself, appeared not to have aged a jot in the ten years since I left. The current staff, on the other hand, seemed alarmingly youthful, though that may say more about my eyesight than their birth certificates. The school itself has already seen major alterations, with another £2.5 million promised. By my maths, that’s £12,500 per child. The place already looks like Fort Knox and has spare classrooms to boot; one can’t help but wonder if the children might benefit more from a bit of investment than the bricks and mortar.
On the 21st, it was time for our annual Pool Players’ Christmas meal. In previous years, we’ve eaten in one of the town’s pubs, but this time we stayed at our home venue, the Catholic Club, where the barmaid gamely volunteered to cook. I had my doubts, but she surpassed all expectations, producing a splendid four-course feast rounded off with a cheeseboard fit for royalty. As ever, the meal was generously funded by the unclaimed 50p coins left on the pool table over the year, which add up to quite a stash. The result? Excellent food, good company, and one very overstuffed pool player.
The clan descended on Christmas Eve. Late in the afternoon, minus Sue, we set off into town to stretch our legs and soak up the Harborough atmosphere. As expected, the place was bustling with last-minute shoppers elbowing their way to the mince pies, while the roads were filled with workers scurrying home after an early finish. After exhausting the few shopping opportunities left to us, we decided to duck into The Beer House for a restorative pint and to rest the little one’s weary legs. Sadly, while Mia the dog was deemed perfectly acceptable company, the boys were underage and therefore a breach of licensing law. So, like a modern-day Mary and Joseph, we trudged off in search of somewhere more hospitable.
Our fortunes failed to improve at our usual haunt, The Admiral Nelson. They were happy to accommodate both dogs and children, but the place was packed to the rafters, and once again, there was no room in the inn for our little tribe. As we made our way back towards Willow Bank, I noticed a brilliant light shining above our destination. Some cynics may say it was merely the security lamp flickering to life as we approached, but I prefer to think of it as our very own Christmas star.
That evening, we dined on a feast of festive delicacies (pizza) before settling into games until the children could keep their eyes open no longer. We retired to our snug little nests upstairs, reassured that NORAD had Santa’s sleigh safely tracked over Russia and estimated an ETA in Harborough within the next few hours.
Sure enough, at some point between midnight and 5 a.m., Santa paid a most discreet visit, leaving parcels of every imaginable shape and size beneath the tree. He also left a personal note for Ellis, who had made an unusual addition to his wish list: the recovery of his toy scorpion, tragically launched onto the school roof the previous week. Santa apologised, explaining that he had tried to find it, but the darkness defeated him. However, he assured Ellis that his elves had made him a brand-new one, which he hoped would serve as a worthy replacement. What a considerate fellow Santa is.
Christmas Day dawned unseasonably warm and blustery. The boys, operating with military stealth, had inspected the tree, now marooned in a sea of glittering surprises, at the unholy hour of 5 a.m., before retreating to their nests to tackle oversized stockings bulging with goodies. By the time I surfaced at 8 a.m., the house was already alive with excitement and the faint rustle of crumpled wrapping paper.
After breakfast, we moved on to the great present-opening ceremony, conducted as tradition dictates: one gift at a time, until the lounge was transformed into a festive battlefield of ribbon and torn paper. This year also saw the induction of a new postman. After nearly a decade of study and rigorous training, Suraj had finally been awarded his licence to sort parcels and deliver them via elf mail. Speaking as a retired postman myself, I must say he discharged his duties with aplomb. I’ve no doubt he will maintain the high standards of his predecessor until the time comes for him to hang up his sack and pass the baton to the next generation of posties.
This year’s Christmas meal was masterminded by Charlotte and Sarah, with Jamie nobly stepping up to command the peas. The whole affair was another triumph, executed with the calm efficiency of the younger generation, who may well have set a dangerous new precedent for years to come.
Suitably bloated from our festive feasting, we drifted into the lounge, each of us fiddling with our newly acquired gadgets and gizmos. Once again, Santa had worked his magic to deliver exactly what everyone had hoped for: a reassuring confirmation that not a single Palmer has yet landed on his naughty list.
Late in the afternoon, we rallied ourselves for a damp and muddy expedition along the Millennium Mile through Welland Park, ostensibly to walk Mia, though in truth it was an attempt to aid digestion after an excellent but weighty Christmas dinner. Midway, we spotted what looked suspiciously like a football wedged in the reeds of the River Welland, perhaps dropped by Santa during a hasty flyover. Suraj and Lucas successfully retrieved it, and I’ve no doubt it will soon join the dozen or so other orphaned balls already colonising the garden.
That evening, Lee and Sarah departed for Nottinghamshire to spend Boxing Day with Lee’s parents and to toast his birthday, while the rest of us remained behind, keeping ourselves merrily occupied with games interspersed with liberal quantities of festive nibbles and drink. I dread to calculate the running total of calories consumed, but suffice it to say, if energy intake alone could power the National Grid, we’d be doing our bit.
Overnight, heavy snow transformed the landscape into a postcard scene, though, in typical British fashion, it promptly threw the roads into chaos. Undeterred, we pressed on with the Palmer festivities and journeyed to Peterborough for the traditional Christmas Greyhound Races. In recent years, we’ve had the foresight to reserve booths, sparing us the indignity of queueing for unclaimed seats and guaranteeing a perch for everyone. This year proved especially rewarding, as Jamie unveiled a betting strategy that turned out to be suspiciously profitable.
The drive home that frosty night was not without its challenges, with snow and slush rapidly hardening into ice, but we made it back in one piece. Once through the door, we immediately set about replenishing our calorie reserves, this time courtesy of an excellent turkey curry crafted by Suraj. The rest of the evening was spent in the cosier pursuit of games, accompanied by the gentle glow of a log burner and central heating and perhaps one or two more nibbles (purely to keep the metabolism ticking over, of course).
The day after Boxing Day is, by long-standing tradition, reserved for a pantomime. This year’s choice was Snow White at the Lighthouse Theatre in Kettering. Jamie had to work earlier in the day, while the Rothwells took full advantage of the sales in Harborough before we all regrouped. Braving the still-treacherous roads, we made the journey together, with the added pleasure of inviting Doreen along for the outing, the Rothwells kindly collected her on their way.
Sarah and Lee, freshly returned from Nottinghamshire, joined our convoy, and we picked up Jamie en route, completing the cast for our own little festive adventure.
We all agreed that this year’s pantomime was one of the finest we’ve seen. The acting was first-rate, and the humour had the entire audience in stitches. There were pyrotechnics, artificial snow drifting down onto our heads, and, unforgettable for those in the splash zone, a soaking courtesy of the dame and her sidekicks, armed with industrial-strength super-soakers.
Back at Willow Bank, Sarah and Lee departed for home, as did Jamie, with work looming the following day.
On the 28th, after a leisurely lunch, the Rothwells also packed up and set off. Peace and calm descended once more on Willow Bank. That evening, Jamie and Ashton volunteered to cook dinner for us, a thoughtful gesture and very much appreciated.
Uncle Stanley: Throughout Christmas, we remained deeply concerned about Stanley. On a recent visit to Lancashire, we had grown increasingly worried about his health and living arrangements. We suggested that he might consider moving to Harborough, where we could support him more easily, but, predictably, he declined.
Determined to keep close contact, we planned to involve Salford Social Services in arranging local support for him. Unfortunately, Sarah’s illness and then Sue’s pneumonia delayed our efforts.
With Sue recovering, I rang Stanley on the 21st. A lady named Selena answered, assuring me he was fine and would call me back. I could hear him coughing and wheezing in the background, but for the time being, I accepted her word. Further attempts to reach him were unsuccessful.
When he failed to answer on Christmas Day, our concern grew. Lacking any other contact numbers, I called Salford Social Services’ out-of-hours emergency line and explained the situation. They visited that same afternoon and found him at home, unwell and refusing help.
I followed up the next day, outlining his circumstances, which they agreed were worrying. A doctor subsequently diagnosed pneumonia and prescribed antibiotics, recommending hospital admission. As expected, Stanley refused.
Over the following days, further visits from care workers and doctors, coupled with a steady decline in his health, eventually persuaded him to accept a compromise. He has now agreed to move into a local care facility, where he will have warmth, regular meals, and 24-hour support.
At the time of writing, we are awaiting confirmation of his transfer. It may happen tonight if a bed becomes available, though more likely tomorrow. We remain hopeful that this marks the beginning of a safer, more secure arrangement for him.
Palmer Family 
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