11th February 2023

The ten-hour flight from Los Angeles passed quickly. No sooner had we finished the in-flight dinner than breakfast seemed to be served. Perhaps it was because we were seated in a pair of seats towards the rear of the aircraft, rather than in the usual three- or four-seat configuration, but the eight hours between meals must have been spent in deep sleep, as we remember nothing of the journey.

The only hiccup came on disembarkation. As we hadn’t parked at one of the satellite gates, we were bused to the terminal. Unfortunately, they’d laid on one coach too few for the number of passengers, and it was nearly an hour after landing before we finally entered the building. We touched down at 12:30 pm and were home, returning to a cold house, by 4:15 pm.

The following day was my birthday. I am now seventy years old and counting. Since reaching the dreaded thirties, I’ve usually managed to be far from Market Harborough on these annual occasions, relishing the freedom to do as I please rather than marking the rather morbid milestone of being a year closer to my maker. Of course, I understand the family’s desire to mark the occasion, and it is deeply touching, but the selfish part of me finds being the focus of gifts and emotion somewhat awkward. I’m far more comfortable giving than receiving, and public praise has never sat well with me. I suppose that’s the legacy of being an only child.

Sarah and her family were the first to arrive, late in the morning. After leaving Mia with me, they headed into town for some shopping. The tribe knows from experience that Saturday is reserved for rugby, birthdays or not, and come 3 pm, I was settled in the garden room with a couple of pals, watching the Tigers beat Bath. After the final whistle, I rejoined the family in the lounge. Charlotte and her clan had arrived by then and were keen to begin the celebrations.

Sue had booked an Indian meal for us all at the Shagorika in Harborough for 5:30 pm, where we met up with Jamie and Ruth. Although the service was slow (we were quite used to that after our time on the Crown Princess), the food was good. For some reason, however, they weren’t serving alcoholic drinks. We assumed they’d fallen foul of the licensing regulations and had temporarily lost their licence.

Back at Willow Bank, I was surprised to find that the expected birthday cake wasn’t the usual iced affair with candles. Knowing that I’m not especially fond of sweet things, cakes and biscuits included, I was instead presented with a ‘cake’ made entirely from wedges of cheese. It was a thoughtful and very welcome conclusion to a celebration I hadn’t exactly been looking forward to.

While Sue busied herself catching up on the housework and the various television programmes she’d missed, I turned my attention to tidying up plans for the upcoming jaunt to Marrakech with five of my friends. The weather had turned bitterly cold, and our winter wood supply was nearly depleted, forcing us to rely on bags of coal bought in the summer, at least until I can find time to get the chainsaw out and hunt for windfall branches. Energy costs are now so extortionate that, like many, we’re reluctant to switch on the central heating unless absolutely necessary.

On 7th March, I attended an appointment with the consultant about my troublesome left foot. After several X-rays and a lengthy discussion of my options, we agreed to pursue the same course of physiotherapy and podiatry that seems, so far, to have worked for the right foot. I now await appointments for both. We discussed the possibility of an operation to fuse the ankle, which would likely reduce the pain but would also severely restrict my mobility (not something I’m keen on!). Regular cortisone injections were ruled out as offering only short-term relief, with no guarantee of success.

I hate the fact that this body is wearing out. It’s no fun being locked inside a structure that no longer moves as it once did, and which complains painfully whenever I act as if I’m still twenty. Still, I’m a million times more fortunate than many others my age, and I’m grateful for that. Whinge over!

After the coldest night of the year so far (-15°C in Scotland), we woke on the 9th of March to falling snow and a blanket of the white stuff, 5cm thick on the ground. It continued to snow until mid-afternoon. Unsurprisingly, the younger members of the family got very excited and opted to freeze to death, engaging in snowy activities. Apart from a couple of trips across town to MOT Sue’s car and a took a short walk to Sean’s for coffee and a chat, we remained inside, close by the log fire, watching the squirrels and birds feed on the grain and peanuts I had scattered under the Scots Pine.

It snowed most of the following morning, but the sun came out during the afternoon, and by the evening, most of the white stuff had melted in Harborough; the rest of the country was not so lucky with the news full of blocked roads and stranded vehicles further north.

Early on Saturday morning (11th), I rose to tackle the online check-in for the following day’s jaunt to Marrakech and a camel trek through the desert. As expected, navigating Ryanair’s website proved to be an ordeal. The 24-hour check-in window is bad enough, but add to that a five-minute countdown timer and a labyrinth of screens designed to push unwanted extras, and it’s a pressure-cooker of a process.

Months earlier, I had already input the details of my five fellow travellers when booking the flight. Naturally, the system required me to enter them all again. Each time I tried, the website helpfully informed me that “something went wrong,” offering no explanation whatsoever.

As a test, I attempted to check in just myself, and annoyingly, that worked. I printed out my boarding card and returned to the task of checking in the others one by one. Still no joy. On a hunch, I accessed my Ryanair account and discovered an option to “add friends.” Dutifully, I entered everyone’s details again. Returning to the check-in page for the third time, I repeated the process, and this time, it worked.

The whole saga took over an hour of confusion and frustration. Ryanair’s website is by far the worst I’ve encountered. The dropdown menus are buggy, the layout confusing, and the entire experience feels like it’s designed to trip you into purchasing things you’ve already declined.

The plan for the rest of the day is to watch England take on France in the Six Nations at 4:45 pm. I’m not especially optimistic about the result, but hope springs eternal. Afterwards, I’ll attempt to grab a few hours of sleep before the early start. Our flight from Stansted is at 7 am, which means leaving Harborough around 3 am. Fingers crossed everything goes smoothly.

In a few days, it will be Ruth’s birthday, and thoughtfully, Jamie has organised a surprise night away for her. Just as I was finishing printing out the boarding passes, they arrived, along with their dogs, Nala and Rocky. While I’m away in Morocco, Sue will be in charge of their care. As ever, she’s a trooper.