Raby Castle

Another fine sunny November day and a drive out to Raby castle for a pre-Christmas food festival that turned out to be a low key affair with maybe a dozen stalls tacked on to the Castle’s own Christmas offering (trees, seasonal shop and Santa), however the quality was good and £20 soon went on scotch eggs, pastries, cheese and chutney, followed by about the same in the tea shop on coffee and well stuffed bacon baps, and a pound or two on stocking fillers in the shop; it stopped there as we go artificial on trees (cat-proof) and I managed to talk my wife out of purloining a random small child (ours being absent and too old anyway) to take to the grotto.

Arboriculture

The silver birch in the back garden, which had again outgrown its welcome, today received a professional cut for the first time after suffering over the years from the attentions of cowboys and amateurs (including me); plenty off the top and a good trim all round was the brief, and that was fulfilled, though only when spring arrives will we see if it looks more like a tree and less like a startled ent from Lord of the Rings.

Double Shift

An early shift on the minibus began at 9am ferrying the schoolchildren to a muddy field for 2 hours of cross country racing that culminated in one shield, several medals and a rather mucky bus floor on our return to school at 1pm; an hour and a half, a quick sandwich, 12 miles and 6 school years later I was with college students explaining the intricacies of equivalent fractions, an equally muddied field (of study) to some of them, until 4pm when my (these days rare) full day’s work concluded.

Step-ups

The Wednesday gym routine of treadmill, rowing machine and exercise bike was augmented today by step-ups, an exercise I studiously avoid to prevent undue pressure on worn out knees but necessarily completed via multiple climbs of the ladder as part of the on-going, somewhat lacklustre, progress of repairing the barn roof; with each batten made to measure for its place between the asymmetric purlins I was up and down with  bits of wood, like squirrel hoarding his nuts before winter sets in, but without the bright eyes and bushy tail bit.

Family Convoy

Two minibuses needed today to get 21 schoolchildren to the sports centre for an indoor athletics competition, and with my wife driving one and me the other it was a regular family convoy that wended its way through the streets; after a couple of hours of shepherding, coaching, toileting and shushing up, the insight into a family outing with 21 kids confirmed our decision to stop at three was sound.

Kingfisher at Croft

Following my recent disparaging comments on the November weather, today provided sunshine, blue skies, and cool still air, demanding to be taken advantage of with a walk, and I chose a section of the Teesdale Way from Blackwell to Croft along one side of the river then back to Blackwell through fields on the other side; stopping to eat my packed lunch on the wide bridge at Croft-on-Tees (to give it its full name) I gazed upstream and caught a glint of iridescent turquoise and red on a riverbank tree bough that resolved itself into a kingfisher for a few seconds before disappearing into the bushes in a swooping flash of blue.

Winter Warmer

Acknowledged the onset of winter today with the ceremonial lighting of the wood-burner to provide not just supplementary heat but also a warming glow to counteract the often damp and dismal winter weather outside; the only downside is having to go out into the same damp and dismal weather to fetch the wood needed to feed the beast and keep it cheerful.

Blind Tasting

Took advantage of the boy’s absence, sleeping over at a mate’s house, to go out for a meal, ending up at the Blacksmith’s Arms who could squeeze in a table for two at short notice; on arrival I realised I had forgotten my glasses so needed the menu reading to me (good job I had included “in visual impairment” in the wedding vows) and had to forego the pleasure of knowing for certain what I was putting in my mouth; however the meal, though blurred, was excellent with just one disorientating moment when I popped in a tomato from my salad only to suddenly taste strawberry.

JFK RIP

Read through a couple of John F Kennedy’s speeches today, fifty years to the day after his death in 1963, and with clichéd clarity recalled where I was (home) and what I was doing (watching the black & white TV) when the news of the assassination came through, and even to a ten year-old in England it was, judging by the impact on the grown-ups around, big and shocking news that seemed to deal a huge blow to the programmes of reform and renewal embodied in his presidency and personality; the “what if” question has been asked continuously since (for one take on it read Stephen King’s fine novel 11-22-63) but I’m not so sure had he lived much would have been different as the forces of reaction would have kicked in to dampen and weaken the bright new hopes – much as it has with Obama, the nearest thing the USA has elected since.

Ashes of the Past

The England v Australia test series down under began just after midnight, giving the opportunity to tune into the ball-by-ball radio commentary from the warmth and sunshine of Brisbane while the cold northern hemisphere November rain lashed down against the curtained window panes; for an hour it was crystal clear on Radio 5 Live Extra, on the digital TV, then in bed, with no headphone jack in the digital radio alarm, I had to resort to Radio 4 long wave on the old transistor, complete with crackles and whistles (and occasional shipping forecast) that took me back to many such mis-spent nights over more decades than bear thinking about.

Footloose

The kitchen table, a few years old now, is a solid piece held up by a sturdy single pedestal attached to four splayed feet via eight bolts that are frankly not up to the job, being simply screwed into the feet, meaning as the wood dries out these screws fail to grip effectively, the joint weakens, a foot comes loose and the table top develops a tilt requiring increasingly inventive measures to be taken to pack out the screw-holes – rawplugs, cork, superglue, and most recently baling twine; again today I had to dismantle it and tip it upside down and have a look-see, but the screws were still holding and all that was required was a tightening of the bolts so hopefully it will hold firm through to Christmas, when maximum load will be applied.

Hoodie Ratio

I did my first session as volunteer helper in a basic maths class where 16-18 year-olds are re-equipped with the numeracy skills they thought, mistakenly, they could do without once they left secondary school; today it was ratios and for me the most noteworthy was the ratio of those wearing their hoods up (in a centrally heated classroom) to those not – at 5:13

Pouffed Out

Apparently the black cat, Jerry, is a bit put out since his brother featured last week and wants everyone to know about his current favourite spot that he retires to after an exhausting 5 minutes with a play ball; the two pouffes are stacked up by the radiator so make for a great double decker bed where he acts out his version of the princess and the pea - the pussy cat and the pouffe.

Clean Machine

My wife and I double-teamed today to give the cars a wash, in the case of mine well overdue as evidenced by moss and weeds growing in its nooks and crannies, and it was good to be reminded of its true colour, a nice mid-blue under the patina of grey-brown dirt, revealed after soaping and sponging and hosing; with my better half in control of the hosepipe more than the cars got a sprinkling - the wheelie bin intentionally and me even more intentionally.

World Cup Winners

This week’s football match is at West Auckland, by no means my first visit but the first since the unveiling of the statue commemorating the team’s historic winning of the inaugural World Cup, in the guise of the Sir Thomas Lipton Trophy, in Italy in 1909 and repeated in 1911, the successive victory giving them the trophy outright; these days the current West Auckland Town team aim a little lower but today’s hard fought win over Shildon gets them one step further in the FA Vase.

Leap of Faith

Cats are creatures of habit and white cat Ben’s current perch of preference in the morning is at the bathroom window where the low winter sun comes in and where, sat on the ledge, he can study the birds in the bushes outside, provided of course someone has had the decency to open or better still raise the venetian blind; sometimes, as this morning, he lies in wait on the landing looking forlorn until the cord is pulled and then launches himself, leaping without pause from floor to toilet to cistern to windowsill, little realising how lucky he is that as a family we are scrupulous in keeping the toilet lid down.

House-husbandry

Semi-retirement isn’t all about going racing, long distance walks and visits to museums, galleries and teashops, so today I got down to a serious day’s house-husbandry with a couple of wash-loads on the line, front windows cleaned inside and out (OK downstairs only), the ironing pile reduced to silky and ruffled remnants that require a feminine touch, and a steak and kidney casserole prepared and popped into the oven; it barely left time to read a chapter or three and crack a killer Sudoku.

Track Star

What should have been a normal Wednesday night – me at the gym and the boy at athletics training – had a pleasant dénouement when, as I began driving home, he came out with an expletive and “I’ve forgotten my trophy”, requiring a quick circle back to the sports centre; sure enough he re-emerged grasping the handsome Boys Track Performance of the Year Cup, awarded in arrears as, after years of attending presentation nights and applauding other people’s children, we unavoidably missed Saturday’s ceremony when he actually won something.

Races

Took the opportunity on a bright and sunny day to go to Sedgefield Races, paying £5 for entry to the enclosure and £1 for a glossy and colourful race card giving all the details of runners, riders, trainers and form, sufficient to make an informed punt on the likely winner; despite this, none of my selections came home in front, the only compensation being that I did not place any actual bets, providing a useful lesson for the group of eight and nine year-old schoolchildren there on a somewhat unorthodox educational visit – enjoy the racing not the gambling.

Swede

Monday is supermarket shop day (I like routine, agreeing with Sheldon from the Big Bang Theory that it frees the mind from having to make too many trivial decisions) alternating between Aldi (good value) and Morrisons (less so but some brands we just can’t do without), and today I am on automatic pilot in Aldi queuing at the till with a conveyor belt full of groceries when a bloke makes his way down the line holding just a swede asking if he can go first; of course I oblige but can’t help wondering why would anyone be so desperate for a swede to go out purely for that purchase – milk yes, eggs yes, bread yes, beer ok, cigs ok, but a swede!

Christmas Prescience

With 44 days to Christmas the starting gun seems to have been fired for the launch of those overblown and at the same time incredibly twee, feature length ‘brand’ adverts crammed with unsubtle festive images intended to link in any gullible shopper’s mind an unbreakable connection between their particular store and the provision of a perfect Christmas; for a few days it is fun trying to guess who’s wasted their millions on which, but as the 44 days wind down they will become increasingly irritating, tiresome and in my case at least counter-productive.

Pipped

Took part in a quiz for the third time in about a month, looking to improve on previous performances of 7^th out of 12 and rank bottom out of 5, and things looked good as we were three points in the lead going in to the last round of questions, or rather riddles along the line of “can a man marry his widow’s sister” (A: of course not he must be dead to have a widow!); given the trickiness of the questions, often turning on dubious semantics, we did quite well to get 14 out of 20, but our nearest rivals got 18 and so pipped us by a point.

Kindless in Darlington

Kindless is my newly synthesised word for the state of being without a kindle when you really need, it like this evening when “Dad’s Taxi” was booked for 5pm but an unavoidable delay put the pick-up back to 6pm just as I arrived in Darlington, for once without a book to while away such otherwise dead time; plan A was to go to the library and find on the shelves, preferably, a book I am already in the middle of – but it was shut; plan B was Waterstones to (more surreptitiously) do the same – but by the time I got there it too was close to closing; plan C was Café Nero – open till 6 – where I used the time productively in writing this, using a pen borrowed from an obliging barista and a paper napkin just about up to the job.

Whorlton Bridge

Halfway through today’s seven mile section of the Teesdale Way Path (from Barnard Castle to Winston) is Whorlton, a pretty little village whose lack of café, pub or even bench on the green is compensated in part by its splendid 1831 vintage suspension bridge spanning the broad Tees with a single track carriageway of timber planks; the tariff notice of the same vintage informs me that the toll to cross on foot is a penny (that’s an old penny – 1d) and 4d to cross in a horse drawn coach; thank goodness I didn’t bring a score of cows with me – that would have topped the lot at 5d.

Leaves

Autumn leaves, heaven on trees but hell on the ground, particularly on the lawn and hard-standing at the front of the house to where, despite there being no trees within 30 yards, the sheddings of half the village are carried by the prevailing winds and dumped in sculpted swirls and heaps; a couple of hours of repeated raking, sweeping, bagging and compressing eventually exposes the grass and block paving, at least until the next windy day deposits another harvest.

Iron Man

In the ranking of household chores ironing comes quite high as it doesn’t involve getting hands wet or kneeling down, and the difference from before to after is discernible even to me, with a mountain of clothes in the drying room disappearing into various drawers and wardrobes; in addition the mental drudgery of the task can be ameliorated by listening to pre-recorded Radio 4 serialisations (today Thackeray’s Vanity Fair narrated by Stephen Fry) without detriment to productivity - it has to be radio though, watching TV either slows me down or burns my fingers.

Ice-cream Cats

Ben and Jerry returned from their two night stay in their cat hotel, where they are known as the ice-cream cats, and took no time to make themselves at home again: Jerry is black with classic white trimmings, the bigger cat who demands his meals, eats them fast and then brazenly tucks into his brother’s bowl; Ben is smaller, white with dark tabby stripes down his back, and is less bothered with his food but more demanding of attention with his aggressive head-buts and his speciality “I’m a tart, stroke my tummy” rollover.

Nottingham

(Saturday 2/11/13)

With wife and son visited Nottingham where younger daughter and partner, having now left their student life well behind, have put down their first tentative roots with proper jobs and a respectable flat in a fashionable suburb just over the river not too far from Trent Bridge and the football grounds; after the guided tour, leaving son to board with his sister, we grown-ups checked in to more spacious accommodation at Swan’s Hotel before taking a short but windy walk to meet up again at The Orchid restaurant, plain on the outside but providing tasty, freshly cooked Cantonese cuisine and chop sticks with which to eat it (with varying degrees of success).

(Sunday 3/11/13)

A bright and breezy day with blustery showers as we all walked into Nottingham and had a look at the Castle Museum and Art Gallery which had an eclectic mix of artefacts, art (unintelligible modern and pretty dull traditional) and history that kept us warm and dry for a while, and in one location provided some amusement for the younger generation in the form of random music generated by how and where they carried what looked like a pizza delivery box; this worked up an appetite well satisfied by pasta, gnocchi and pizza in an Ask Italian, before we returned to the flat and said our goodbyes – comforted in my case by the realisation of not so much losing a daughter as gaining a pied-a-terre close to a couple of football grounds and a test cricket venue.

Oats

November is my least favourite month as the increasing cold and decreasing daylight is, unlike December, unrelieved by the proximity of Christmas; in compensation its start also signals for me the beginning of the porridge season with tasty rolled oats cooked slowly in warm milk (none of that instant stuff) and topped with Demerara sugar making a fine winter breakfast.