New Year’s Eve

Hard on the heels of our Christmas came New Year’s Eve, and so another feast (a rather delicious tagine made with slow-cooked shin beef) enlivened by a murder mystery game after which, replete, we rather sedately saw in 2016 with the Jools Holland Hootenanny on TV.

Moveable Feast

With blended families and children's partners’ families, Christmas has become a bit of a moveable feast, and at our house this year it moved a full five days, but today we finally hosted our festive meal and exchanged the last of the presents; and, none the worse for the delay, both meal and gifts went down well.

Mod Cons

Returned from Salford tonight but left my dad better equipped in his improvised downstairs bed-sitting room having fitted a clip-on lamp to his bedhead (enabling him to read if he wakes during the night) and installed a wireless doorbell, with the push-button stuck on his bedside table and the chime in the upstairs bedroom (enabling his minders – me last night – to retire to bed confident they can be roused if needed).

Timeless

My basic but functional Casio wristwatch lost its original strap a few months ago, and its ill-fitting replacement fell apart yesterday, which required hauling out the less functional (no light, no alarm, no stopwatch) old Sekonda (with a dead battery) for my latest trip down to Salford, but towards the end of the two hour drive I sensed a cold patch on my upper arm that on investigation felt like a £2 coin up my sleeve, and when I pulled up and got out of the car a tiny battery fell to the floor, swiftly followed by the back of the Sekonda sliding down my sleeve into my waiting palm; so I am left with one good timepiece with no strap and one good strap with no timepiece but no convenient way to tell the time.

Cutlery

My wife and I have been looking to replace our mixed up and mysteriously diminishing stock of knives, forks and spoons for a while, so when I saw a promising boxed set in Wilkinson’s this morning I paused and began to discuss its merits with her, but on getting no response I turned to find I had been talking to a complete stranger, my wife having wandered off up another aisle; however the bemused but friendly woman I had been addressing, reassured of my sanity once my wife reappeared, did confirm my opinion (having recently bought some of the teaspoons) so we went ahead with the purchase.

Rain Persisting

It is as well that we had no plans to go far today as the rain persisted and the water levels on the roads rose; however we put on wellies and walked from one end of the village to the other to get some fresh, if damp, air and check the exit routes for the likelihood of them being passable tomorrow.

Going with the Flow

In tune with the unrelenting rain outside we had a low key Christmas day, which is not to say it wasn’t enjoyable, as we three exchanged presents and chilled before heading out into the wet to my in-laws for a traditionally excessive dinner (and more exchanging of presents) after which we made our excuses and left in an attempt to get home before the roads into the village become impassable; and we just about made it through the final 200 yards of flowing water, thankfully downstream, in time to flop on the sofa to watch the Downton Abbey finale with a couple of glasses each of Prosecco laced with Limincello.

Driving Home

The more you drive a route the shorter it seems, so the trip back up to the North East was a breeze, aided also by the words of Chris Rea echoing in my head – “Driving home for Christmas, Can’t wait to see those faces”.

Day Nurse

The first full day home after my Dad’s discharge from hospital meant getting to grips with the medication (which arrived by taxi sometime later) – eleven different sets of tablets needing a total of fifteen doses in six separate time slots – so it a good job his mind is in better nick than his legs.

Night Nurse

Back in Salford at short notice with my Dad discharged and installed in his front room complete with hospital bed (delivered that morning); to keep an eye on him overnight I took the night shift on the sofa, ministering to his not excessive needs in between dozing; at least it was not the longest night of the year – just the second longest.

Christmas Shops

The hordes were out in force at two of the local retail hotspots, which meant vehicular crawling and pedestrian plodding around Bolams in Sedgefield, where groaning trolley loads of meat and veg were being pushed around on their way to what must be vast ovens in some homes, and Teesside Park in Stockton – the last desperate port of call for the more clueless gift buyers; naturally we were the exceptions, skipping round Bolams with a hand basket and surgically sniping items off the gift list in Teesside Park.

Christmas Three

Made up for some lost time with a rash of Christmas activities: in the morning visited the Bowes Museum Christmas market, which was a bit disappointing with the fewer than usual stalls representing poor value for the £2.50 entrance fee; in the afternoon the Christmas tree was assembled from its fifty plus constituent parts and draped in lights, baubles, tinsel and a few old favourite novelties like the balding snowman and the wonky reindeer; and in the evening we took part, not very successfully, in a Christmas themed pub quiz.

Making a List

With me returning from Salford and my wife recovering from laryngitis neither of us felt full of the Christmas spirit so it was ‘bah humbug’ for a while until late afternoon when, as a concession to the imminent festivities, we compromised by doing a bit of planning – producing lists of outstanding presents, family comings and goings, the implications for meals and the associated food shopping; all quite complicated so perhaps we should have taken Santa’s lead and checked it twice.

Two Alans

A quiet hour on my own at my Dad’s house was interrupted by a knock on the door from a seven year old girl who, when I answered, asked if Alan (my Dad’s name) was in, so I explained that he was still in hospital and then we had a chat during which she asked who I was and was told I was Alan’s son, and my name was Alan too; she wished my father a speedy recovery and as she left said “goodbye Alan 2”.

Puncture

My plans to drive back to Salford this afternoon were punctured by a puncture on the Juke discovered last night and although the offending nail was embedded tightly enough to enable re-inflation long enough to get to the repair shop today, sufficient damage had been done to the tyre to require a new one, which had to be procured and would be delivered by late afternoon; however they slapped on the “space saver” spare wheel (so that was £240 well spent last year) and sent me on my way, so at least I was able to get on with some belated Christmas preparations (as the big day approaches faster than my currently woolly head can cope with) before returning to change wheels in a time that would not shame Louis Hamilton and get on my way down South.

Mr Driver

Mr Driver is my professional name while chauffeuring, twice a week, the eight two and three year-olds to and from their nursery school, a job that concluded today after 14 weeks – that’s 56 journeys with them on board mainly happily chatting and singing, and only occasionally screaming and shouting; from next term the transport is no longer needed and though no redundancy package is in order, Mr Driver did receive from appreciative parents a few Christmas paper wrapped parcels that were welcome more for the thought than the substance.

Maggie’s Place

The driving duties compressed into a half day to accommodate the children’s Christmas party, and the need to pick the boy up from college mid-afternoon, made for a hectic day criss-crossing Darlington, so I was grateful for a half hour of peace and calm with a pot of tea and a cheese scone in the excellent Maggie’s Place on Duke Street.

National Football Museum

While in Salford I decided to nip across the Irwell into Manchester to visit the National Football Museum, a modern shard of glass on the outside, and a typically modern museum on the inside with lots of flashing or fragmented screens pandering to those (maybe now a majority) with the attention span of a gnat but the ability to see seven things at once; to be fair much of the contents are of interest, with old memorabilia – shirts, photos, programmes, trophies and even balls – displayed among the video booths and interactive games, but the higgledy-piggledy nature provided no discernable narrative to me, although one pleasant surprise was some interesting artwork ranging from the sublime (exquisite – and very expensive - footballer portraits by royal artist Darren Baker) through the eccentric (King Eric by Michael Browne after Piero Della Francisca’s Resurrection of Christ) to the downright bizarre (the statue of Michael Jackson recently removed from outside Craven Cottage).

No Beef with Beef

My ex-butcher Dad likes his meat, so meals at his house tend to the carnivorous, even during his absence in hospital, which has put me on a high protein diet of (so far) sirloin steak on Friday, roast beef sandwiches on Saturday, and braised beef steak today; but there will be no complaints from this ex-butcher’s son.

Weather Worries

The pouring rain in Salford was the least of my weather worries today as my sister set off by train for deepest Cornwall via the stormy Welsh Borders, where her scheduled connections were thrown off by a fallen tree on the line; then the message came of snow and flooded roads in the North East to potentially strand the boy (and his car) at his weekend workplace, which led to his mother checking the route in her car and then returning in convoy; after which news came through of my sisters safe arrival some thirteen hours after departing – oh, and it finally stopped raining in Salford.

Bedpan Rudolph

Back to Salford for hospital visiting, with some light relief provided by an imaginative Christmas decoration on the ward – a red nosed reindeer head constructed from the ubiquitous cardboard bedpan and bottles.

No Show

The non-appearance of my learner enabled me to use the two and a half hours scheduled to tidy up my lesson plan (now better for next week), write a book review for the book blog, and most importantly get away early and get to the butchers in time to buy one of their excellent pies for lunch.

Not So Smart

My wife’s Smart car, left inexplicably untethered by its handbrake, was reported to her at lunchtime as having rolled into the car park fence and so was duly retrieved apparently unharmed; consequently, after school, when we got in the car we sat trying to work out if it was possible to leave the semi-automatic parked in gear or not, my wife trying the key in and the key out, the ignition on and off, and the gear lever in every conceivable position – N, R, and 1 to 5 (there is no P) – which so confused the poor little thing that, when the time came to start the engine for real, she (the car not my wife) just wheezed and coughed to no avail, potentially leaving us stranded in the dark, until we adopted the tried and trusted remedy of turning it off, waiting a few minutes, and turning on again, at which point the old girl (the car, definitely not my wife) burst into life again.

Truncated Team

It was a truncated team of just four that participated in tonight’s Vane Arms Christmas Quiz, and although our breadth of knowledge was thus constrained, there were some positives: only one car needed to get there; able to squeeze round a small table on a night crowded with seasonal diners; and only four different opinions (guesses) to debate (argue over) when answering the questions.

On the Road

A day spent mainly, or so it felt, on the road with a return trip to Manchester enveloping two local commutes between my Dad’s house and his hospital ward; the longer journeys were trouble-free, the shorter ones somewhat congested, with the most stressful drive being around the hospital car park, hawk-eyed for someone leaving whose place we could nab.

Shopping by Numbers

We found Darlington surprisingly and helpfully quiet as we hit the shops to make as big a dent in the Christmas shopping as possible and, well prepared with an extensive list, the numbers four hours later were impressive: 34 presents bought from 10 different shops, and the plastic if not melted was at least floppy as the spending rate approached £100 per hour.

Storm & Yawn

With storm Desmond blowing hard enough to ruin any local football match I remained indoors and watched the snooker semi-final which, in contrast to the weather, was becalmed as Liang Wenbo and David Grace took about six hours to play ten somewhat erratic frames.

Controlled Turn

After a couple more hospital visiting sessions I set off back home at about eight o’clock and despite the windy conditions made good time until the A1(M) ground to a complete halt somewhere north of Wetherby, sadly due to a fatal accident up ahead; after a couple of hours the police finally got round to clearing the four miles of stationary traffic and with a “controlled turn” led us back, twenty vehicles at a time, to junction 47 from where I was able to find an alternative route via York – not without a final detour about a mile from home to avoid a fallen tree blocking the road, most unwelcome at what was by now half past midnight.

Hope

A year and a few days on from accompanying my dad on his trip to the Royal Orthopaedic Hospital in Birmingham to sort out his right leg, I found myself visiting him and another problematic leg in another hospital – Salford Royal in Eccles; when I last lived thereabouts the building was about a tenth of its current size and was called Hope Hospital – after the locality but echoing the sentiment of many of the patients and visitors just like, today, us.

Igloo

In concert with another ‘volunteer’ I spent much of the daylight hours in the outside classroom of the primary school constructing an igloo out of used (and variably rinsed-out) plastic milk containers, held together by my pre-prepared cardboard rings and adhesive from a hot glue gun – although with the day cool the hot liquid glue rapidly became cold set glue, requiring a quick-fire technique in squeezing the trigger and placing the container – that turned out pretty well, good enough to form the centre-piece of the temporary Arctic play area; after gluing about 200 cartons together my trigger finger had gone numb from the continuous pressure exerted – either that or some psychosomatic frostbite had set in.

Red Button Snooker

A night in on my todd, and thank goodness for the BC red button channel that gave me uninterrupted coverage of the UK Snooker Championship, taking in the whole ten frames of the Judd Trump – Liang Wenbo match, that confirmed that in sport, it is not how you start that counts, but how you finish.