"One Christmas was so much like another in those years..."

Today is the first anniversary of my Mum's death - Mum, Granny Gin, Granny Great aka the Intrepid Granny on these pages. Please don't sign out on the grounds that this is going to bring down your festive mood. I promise it won't because this is a celebration of all the things that made up our Christmas with the Intrepid Granny for many years. 

She had declared, well over 20 years ago, that she intended to spend all her future Christmases in Yorkshire. With a few exceptions she pretty much pulled that off and the first ringing of the Christmas bell would be in August when she would ask: "What are we doing for Christmas?" Love it! In just six words she was announcing her intention to come to us and whatever we were doing, she was doing it too. 

We would try to hold off her arrival at York Station until the 22nd or 23rd of December because a) we'd only just celebrated her birthday and b) once she arrived we had to be ready to entertain her. I or latterly any of the children with a driving licence would collect her from a member of York Station staff who would be clutching her many bags crammed with things she thought we might like - or sometimes things she thought might 'go off' whilst she was away. And of course, she instantly wanted to know the full programme of events. 

Fast forward to Christmas Eve when my beloved wouldn't even have started wrapping, and me peeling, chopping and stuffing for all I'm worth in the kitchen. There would be church at some point - either during the day when the children were small and could barely contain their excitement - or at midnight when Mum and I would creep out of the house for the magical counting down to Christ's birth in our quiet village church. My beloved would still be up wrapping on our return when we were leaving bite marks in the reindeer carrots and knocking back Santa's sherry.

But before all that, after supper on Christmas Eve we would sit and read Dylan Thomas' A Child's Christmas in Wales, which always started with me reading: "One Christmas was so much like another in those years, around the sea town corner now and out of all sound..." and then the book handed round for each of us to read a page or two. One of my favourite parts of Christmas - no television, no music, just the sound of our voices telling the beautiful story of mischief, snow and cats. 

I have lots of pictures of us all on Christmas morning sitting in dressing gowns with a discarded wrapping paper mountain of excitement. The believing years were, of course, the most special and the two older were very good about not letting cats out of bags for the younger two. The Intrepid Granny would sit in the middle of it all, unwrapping her stocking with slightly less giddiness but twinkling as only grannies can. 

Our only social outing of the day would be up in the village to our always-hospitable Irish chums. Half the village would be there, quaffing fizz, eating smoked salmon and swapping Christmas news. Teenagers wearing whatever new Christmas clothes they had been given, then in later years, bringing along fiancés and new husbands or wives. Our whole family was always welcomed including Mum. Other grannies would cluster in a less congested part of the kitchen, chatting amongst themselves, each unable to hear the other in the hubbub. Not the Intrepid Granny... she would be regaling the young cricketers of the village with her tales of Edgbaston, Lords, the Oval, and the MCG, for she had travelled the world watching England play cricket. I always wondered whether it was polite respect or genuine enjoyment on their part - I think the latter because she was a great storyteller of sporting derring-do.

Then there was the squeezing of lunch into the gap between socialising and The Queen. Other guests and family members might arrive and somehow food would make it to the table. Some years, pudding didn't happen until after Her Majesty - and sometimes, if we were too full, not at all. Then standing for the National Anthem - always - and silence throughout before Mum would comment at the end on how well HM looked, how wonderful were her words and so on. Polite nodding before the second unwrapping began. 

An innings collapse in front of the television for the whole team and some quiet snoring from one or two older members or if we were feeling more lively, we would do Granny's Christmas Quiz which had usually been garnered from the Golf Club and which generally took us three or four days to complete. 

Mum loved it all. The centre of all things, sometimes driving me mad with questions and requirements when I was wrestling the bird, or the ham or anything else. Her insistence on everyone having a sprout. Her absolutely intention of not missing a moment. 

It's the changing of the guard for our Christmas now. It will never be quite the same, whether here or in Liverpool or wherever we land. But we'll always be thinking of her. Especially when the plates of smoked salmon* come out. 

                                    Mum on her 90th birthday cruise - still a little girl at heart! 

*Her favourite food along with Marks and Spencers' chocolate eclairs! 

Crow House Barn - the Kitchen Project

First, a quick context-setting... When we embarked into the world of hospitality with our Barn - this being in a career sense rather than the cork-popping, let's have friends round sense - the world was a different place. Our model for this new enterprise was based on guests sleeping in the Barn, eating breakfast in our conservatory (lovingly cooked by my beloved with waitressing/washing up by moi) and then them going out for the day. Hmm...

These were the halcyon days of pubs and restaurants being open for food pretty much seven days a week and people feeling safe enough to use them. This all worked well in our first summer. We were urged, even then, by our expert Lake District holiday let hosts/dear friends, to put in a kitchen. But we were rammed with bookings, we argued. Also, and I argue now from a smug position of strength, what we might have done then in terms of facilities is not what we have done now. The world is a different place after all. 

Once the dreaded pandemic started, despite deciding that guests could not come into our home for breakfast, and taking them bespoke bacon sandwiches instead, even with no proper kitchen, we continued to fill the Barn with guests whenever there was a break in hostilities. Opening up in April this year when Boris cut the 'going out' ribbon, we have been pretty much packed all summer. Part of this is the necessary result of moving lots of bookings from months when we were closed, of course. We've had wedding groups, families with small children hurtling round the garden (Darcy, the dog loves this!) and folks just wanting to 'chillax'. But the need for an actual kitchen (cooker, hob, fridge/freezer/sink) was becoming increasingly apparent and we have now bitten the bullet. 

When my friends complain of having workmen in the house, I always look at them with poorly-disguised envy. 'You're actually paying people to do home improvements?!' For much of my adult life I have only been able to dream of this! But I do understand how cross people get when the workmen don't show up on the agreed day and suddenly the next workman (plumber, tiler, electrician etc) can't do their bit because the other carpet fitter, heating engineer, etc, etc hasn't turned up on the previous day. This anxiety is magnified many times over when you close your business for three weeks and there are bookings after that. 

A month ago we waved goodbye to lovely Tracey and her family (regulars here) and began - almost before their vehicle was out of sight - to shift furniture, take down pictures and rip up carpets. For three hectic weeks, my beloved along with heating engineers (because we have replaced the heating system for a faster, more efficient version), kitchen fitters, plumbers and electricians have done an amazing job. Credit where it's due, my beloved absolutely nailed this despite my prophesies of gloom and doom and cancellation of bookings. 

Darcy loved having workmen-with-sandwiches around all day and despite our best efforts to turn her into a slimmer version of herself, she shamelessly showed off to anyone and everyone on site. This did give Trevor, the postman, a break because she has to be removed from his van on a daily basis because he gives her treats! 

The kitchen was finished with less than 24 hours to spare and after three lots of guests it still looks gorgeous. Big thanks to Wharfedale Heating, Daryn Forster, Steve Drake and Walter Hartley Electrical who turned up on time and did a great job! 

"I'm not speaking to anyone until those nice men with sandwiches come back..."

Retirement Day (from the day job, that is)!

Today is retirement day. This milestone, after 45 years in advertising and marketing, has been a goal for sometime but suddenly it feels like it’s galloped up on the far rail and overtaken me. 

I want to mark this day with some memories and some words of thanks. I didn’t take this journey alone after all. 

Wind back the clock 45 years to a nervous 20 year old, dressed, I clearly recall, in a lilac linen dress and matching heels - perfect for an interview in Leeds in December! I had been applying for jobs in advertising agencies, marketing departments of blue chip companies and similar businesses to no avail for some time. My carefully hand-written letters with cv had not a jot of relevant experience and in consequence this was only my second interview reaped from a lot of effort! 

Quite what the then managing director of this advertising agency saw in me, I have no idea, but I walked out with a job and a start date of January 2nd 1977. I had wrestled a job as the lowest form of human life in the agency - though I’m sure they called it something more prestigious - maybe even with a two word title! 

Despite the fact that I was, from day 1, the butt of everyone’s jokes in the creative department being a) posh (by their standards) and b) a southerner (the next most southern employee coming from Doncaster), by the end of the week, I absolutely knew that I was in the right place. I loved it. And I remain convinced that no one who works in advertising in this century has as much fun as we did back then. We worked hard, played harder and, in the words of Ronan Keating, life truly was “a rollercoaster”. I made friends for life, even in that first week. My dearest friend from that time died a while ago but he was a top godfather to child number 2. I learnt more from the legend that was Hank Howe, who seemed at 60 like the oldest person on the planet, than anyone else but lots of folks took time to teach me stuff, especially the tatty typographer from Doncaster with whom I shared an office for a while. He increased my vocabulary in all sorts of interesting ways. 

Back then, typesetting came from Manchester to Leeds in a van from a company called Gask and Hawley which apparently still exists but was more usually called Grasp and Crawley. Huge parcels of artwork were shipped every day to national newspapers and the air was perfumed with magic markers and cow gum spray. 

From lowest form of life to director in 8 years. I was definitely in the right place. I had wonderful colleagues who made even the hard stuff fun (mostly), met all sorts of great people who did other jobs in the industry from photographers and film producers to graphic designers, illustrators, media reps and everything in between. I had brave clients (sometimes) who would take a risk and buy into the creative dream, and conservative clients who wanted - and usually got - their pound of flesh. Best of all, I met a young man who worked in the family coach travel business who was also a client. “Reader, I married him.” 

Intending to retire once we started a family, it somehow never quite happened, though in the early years, I worked only on and off. Could I help with a pitch, work on an exhibition stand, do a really horrible cold calling campaign? Yes I did all those things and more. 

Then a few years on, with four under 11, I went back into the business properly, working first for a public relations consultancy and then setting up on my own. Looking back, it was quite brave/rash but it worked out ok. I started on day 1 with one client and by day 5, I had two and so it went on. As a one-man-band, I always said I could do stuff, even if I had no idea how I was going to achieve it. And fortunately it usually worked, though sleep was definitely lost on the way. 

I won an IPR Gold in 2002 (I’ve just looked - it needs dusting!) and got shortlisted for another award. Not bad for a sole trader. I’ve worked for some great clients, my mantra always being that I would only work for people that I could recommend in whatever field they worked in. I’ve had the pleasure of working for some businesses for in excess of 17 years and loved being accepted as part of the team, rather than an outside supplier. 

A few years ago, I had breast cancer and I was pretty poorly for nearly a year. I told each of my clients the awful news, saying I quite understood if they went elsewhere but that I intended to work as much as I could. Every single one assured me that I should do what I could when I could and that they would continue to pay me regardless. I cannot thank them enough to this day. 

I was lucky enough to work through the pandemic for businesses that continued to operate through very tough circumstances. I think in some ways they went above and beyond to keep me on, but I hope that I justified their support. I certainly tried. 

Finally, as one of my last hurrahs, last month I went to an awards ceremony in Leeds with my last remaining client. We had been shortlisted for an award and it would have been a fairytale ending for me if we had won. We didn’t but I got to meet David Flatman who is something of a hero of mine. I looked around the room at all the bright young things at the start of their careers and wished them all the fun, excitement, great friends and the buzz of it all that I have enjoyed over the years. Definitely time for me to go. 

Postscript: I saw a friend on Saturday night with whom I have worked quite a few times over the years. He confidently said that if I retired today, I’d be bored by Thursday and looking for work. I think I’ll last longer than that but I’ll keep you posted!