John

Amongst the cornucopia that comprises our extended families we surely have more steps, halves and exes than most. Many of the reasons why we have so many steps, halves and exes happened long before my beloved and I were married and rather than chew over the ancient history of how we reached this point, I try to use the mantra 'speak as you find'. Not always easy but better than looking back at things that happened so many years ago.

Family gatherings therefore can be rather challenging and although we were married nearly thirty years ago, I can still remember the machinations and negotiations that went on to achieve an acceptable order for the receiving line at our wedding. Christmas can be challenging for the same reasons.

Christmas has occurred here for almost all of the twenty five years we have lived in this house. When the children were little I never wanted to drag them from their newly acquired and rapidly unwrapped presents to go somewhere else so we made Christmas a celebration in our own home and anyone and everyone is invited. Tradition demands that it is always the same and only a few minor changes in the dramatis personae are permitted.

Christmas dinner takes place at teatime and with most of the family already staying, we only await the arrival of my beloved's mother and stepfather for the feasting to begin. So, early on Christmas afternoon, the other granny (not the intrepid one, obviously, as she will have been in residence for days by then) and Uncle John, her husband, arrive. The terms 'uncle' and 'auntie' are used for special people in our children's lives - too special just to be called by their christian or surnames and John is certainly one of these. He is the nearest thing to a grandpa that all but my oldest can remember. Both my father and my father-in-law died in very quick succession over twenty years ago and aside from Uncle Ernest (yet again, not an uncle or relative of any kind) who used to be the gamekeeper, then gardener and then just came for coffee every Friday and who also died quite a few years ago, Uncle John is almost a grandpa to the four children.

My beloved's mother will arrive swathed from top to toe in either pink or red, frequently including a hat and always sunglasses which she wears regardless of the weather and will not be removing even though she is inside. Behind her, hovering in the doorway is John, in a supporting role as ever, and waiting in our rather cramped hall whilst granny decides what clothing she will remove. I always wait for John, take his sheepskin coat and he'll say 'Hello, love,' in the same familiar rasping drawl.

During the cracker-banging, shouting, laughing cacophony of the meal, at some point John will find his way to the kitchen, glass of red wine in hand, and offer to help. I never let him but he'll stand and chat and for a few brief moments it will feel like we are brothers in arms. We'll chat about books or tennis or, latterly, golf - things we have in common, and although we could talk about a million other things, I know that's what it will be and I will also know that, perhaps more than anyone else, he will appreciate not just the lengths we have gone to today, my beloved and I, to make a lovely Christmas celebration for them, but all the preparation that has gone on before. And that will be a special moment amongst other special moments on my Christmas Day.

I don't think he'll be here this Christmas. Nor any of the Christmases that lie ahead. But I shall remember him. His rasping drawl, his sheepskin coat and his kind words. We often wished that he would raise his voice, to stand up and be counted. But that wasn't John and his way was the quiet one. 'Bye, love.'

PostScript: I wrote this a week ago. Last night, Christmas Eve, John passed away on the stroke of midnight. We will miss his quiet thoughtfulness. A sad Christmas for us this year.

My Best Things about Scotland

There's been a lot of media coverage about Scotland's proposed independence but no one, I am noting, seems to be asking the rest of the Brits what we think about Scotland ceasing to be a part of the Union. And some of us do have a view - well, I do anyway. Of course, I realise that I will still be able to travel there and that Scotland will not be cut adrift floating somewhere in the middle of the North Sea with its bloody umbilical chord left trailing off the coast at Berwick. But nevertheless, I like Scotland just where and how it is. So selfish it may be but, rather than treating you to why I think Alec Salmond is irritating beyond belief,  I thought I should jot down the things that make Scotland utterly great and why I, for one, would like things to stay as they are. It's a personal choice and whilst I was writing this I kept coming up with other things to include but I had to stop somewhere so, in a rather random order,  here they are.

1  Edinburgh
Without doubt, one of my most favourite cities. We have had some really epic times there from back in the day when children numbered 1 and 2 went on school lacrosse tours there each year and we supported them by partying hard after the matches with hilarious consequences, to more recent trips for my birthday (when England beat Scotland at Murrayfield) and earlier this year for a riotous 50th when a whole group of us had a brilliant time - more partying but some sightseeing too. Fabulous!

2  Holyrood Palace and Mary Queen of Scots
What a girl! Mary managed to marry three times (going some, even compared to my own family's matrimonial record) and actually married the Earl of Bothwell, the murderer of Lord Darnley, her second husband. But the best bit of all is at Holyrood Palace where there is an alarming red stain on the floor of her apartments reputed to be the site of the murder of her secretary Rizzio who was dragged away from her and stabbed 56 times! I'm sure they put red ink on the floorboards regularly to maintain the stain but it's a great one for the children!

3  Men in kilts and bagpipes
Men in kilts are a joy to womankind everywhere and my first experience of this was when I went on a camping trip to Scotland aged about sixteen with a young Christian group (hard to believe, but true). On the first night of the holiday, we were staying at a youth hostel in Edinburgh rather than under canvas. As we humped our rucksacks up to the dormitory we were told by whoever was in charge that we would be woken in the morning by a piper. We giggled and forgot all about it until the morning when we heard, at very close quarters, the sound of bagpipes. I was volunteered by the rest of the group to step out into the corridor in my jimjams where I ran head-on into a huge, red-headed, bekilted piper. Unforgettable.

4  Durness
This was on the same trip which took us to lots of different places in Scotland including Skye (which also deserves a mention). The weather was mostly dire and the tents were soaking wet with a lot of shouting 'don't touch the tent' which people inevitably did thus causing the tents to leak water onto the sleeping bags. But after a week of fairly continuous downpour we arrived in Durness on a beautiful day and there was the most stunningly beautiful beach. I've been to some good ones since then but Durness remains a highlight.

5  Murrayfield
If the English can't win the Six Nations, my heart always wants Scotland to win - even before we packed Newcastle Falcons with Scotland players. We've been twice to Murrayfield. The first time the Scots thought they stood no chance and actually England didn't even bother to turn up - or that's how it felt - and the Scots were joyously victorious. The second time, on my birthday a couple of years ago, the Scots were so confident that they were going to win that they were delightful and charming before the match and surprisingly gracious afterwards. They lost, England won and it was brilliant.

6  Scottish Lacrosse
Number1 child went to Edinburgh University and thoroughly enjoyed the experience. Continuing her lacrosse career from school she played for the University and then in her final year for Scotland. She had to learn Flower of Scotland for her international debut and it was a very proud moment to see her play and lovely that my mother and brothers were there to see her too. My father would have been so proud. And yes, there is Scottish blood in the children's veins - on my beloved's side. (See Uncle Bill).

7  Chris Hoy's thighs
I had the pleasure of meeting Sir Bradley Wiggins the other day and he was charming. That is, until later in the evening when presumably he had had a few sherberts and someone thrust a microphone under his nose. At which point he was completely obscene and pretty much alienated the 600+ people in the room. Sir Chris would never have done that and he does have the most impressive thighs in the United Kingdom.

8  Sean Connery
I know everyone has their favourite Bond but mine, by a country mile, is the original. Even in the Bond film, Never Say Never Again when he wore a terrible toupee. He was once voted the Sexiest Man of the Century (in 1999) and I can't argue with that. He has a marvellous voice and is, well, gorgeous.

9  Andy Murray
Of course. The man who battled just about everyone along the way to win the Olympics, the US Open and Wimbledon including the tennis establishment, the ignorant sports media who mainly seem to know about football and wing it on most other sports and all the other doubting Thomases of middle England. He is absolutely to be applauded and if he doesn't win Sports Personality of the Year it will be a gross travesty.

10 Loch Ness Monster
Even Yorkshire (which has most other things) doesn't have a monster. I love the idea of something prehistoric and unexplained and the black waters of Loch Ness just lend credibility to the legend. Every country should have a monster but then, if they did, perhaps it wouldn't be so special.

11 Braveheart
Terrible liberties were taken with the historical facts for this William Wallace film starring the Aussie Mel Gibson (were no Scots available for the part?) but it has some great moments and the battle scenes are epic. I'm very patriotic but even I was rooting for the Scots!

12  Uncle Bill
I've written about the Uncle Bill before but the late Sheriff Bill Hook of Morningside, Edinburgh was one of the finest men I have ever known. The English translator in Colditz during the Second World War, having been captured by Rommel, he was so modest and thought that no one would be even a little bit interested in his extraordinary life. He was a wonderful gentleman. Sadly missed.

13 The Proclaimers
Own up! Who hasn't stomped their way round the dance floor to those bespectacled twins, The Proclaimers' 500 Miles, shouting tunelessly and wondering what 'haver' means? Actually I looked it up and it would appear that it doesn't mean upchucking (which is what I have always thought) and it actually means talking foolishly which makes much more sense in the context of a sort-of love song!

14 Union Flag

Now of course this isn't Scottish but if they go, the blue bits on the flag have to go too. And although I can take or leave our national anthem (something of a dirge in my view and hardly anyone knows the second verse which is much better than the first, let alone the rest) I like the Union Flag whether it's hung the right way up or not.

So here's a plan... let's all hug a Scotsman whenever we meet one between now and September 18th 2014 and show that we love and appreciate them and that we don't want them to leave. I shall be starting with Sir Chris, Sir Sean and, in due course, Sir Andy. I leave the rest to you...

Senior Moments

Last week the intrepid granny came to stay as part of her cunning plan to simplify Christmas. Now that she has sensibly stopped terrorising the other motorists on the M1 when she makes her way up to Yorkshire and lets the train take the strain instead, she is not as able to cart all the Yorkshire-bound Christmas presents up here for the annual festivities. So she decided to come up for two days of full-on, no-holds-barred Christmas shopping and wrapping. This all took place last week and after a day of shopping which started at 8.45am and finished at 3.45pm, we both needed a very large drink! And of course, the intrepid granny is up to her usual tricks, her current favourite being as follows: When she is in the sitting room watching the television, drink in hand, whilst the rest of us are variously working, cooking, doing homework, etc, she will suddenly let out an ear-piercing shriek. Cue the rest of us (though the twins have wised up now...) dashing in to check that she has not had some sort of seizure.  No, she is fine but there is someone on the television that she wishes us to see. This could be anybody from a representative of any political party other than the one she supports in which case this is followed by a torrent of abuse which would make a sailor blush (the Scottish Nationalists are at the top of her current hit list). Alternatively it could be any member of the Warwickshire or England cricket teams in which case she would merely like us to stand back and admire.

I was, however, more drawn by another group of people older than me (yes, such a thing does exist though in increasingly smaller numbers as time marches on). Our lane is part of a popular walk for ramblers and there was a large posse of silver ramblers complete with backpacks, matching anoraks (husband and wife models), dogs and sticks on our lane the other day. When I buzzed up to the village in the little car to collect number 4 from the bus, they all stood obligingly in the hedge whilst I made my way past. Five minutes later they were clearly less thrilled to be doing the same thing again but I had now collected number 4 and we were heading home. The following morning when I walked the dogs, there was a good scattering of litter on the lane and with some irritation I picked it up and stuffed it in my pocket. Now I usually associate litter with a) teenagers, b) white van men and c) townies but I don't think any of the above eat egg and cress sandwiches from a well-known and rather upmarket supermarket. Take your litter home, old folks!

And finally, I received a belter of an email from an old (in the sense that we have known each other a long time and he is a little, but only a little, older than me) chum and as it is a true story, it deserves (permission granted by my chum) to be included here. I have taken the liberty of editing the original a little but it arrived under the heading 'Drugs Bust in Newton Kyme?'

This is the story:

• After 2 hours of tennis this lunchtime I returned from Leeds and parked my car in the public carpark in the centre of Boston Spa to do some shopping.
• I went to the convenience store first, returned to my car and put the items in the boot.
• Then I went to the hardware store, returned to my car and put the items in the boot and then got into the car and drove out of the carpark.
• Immediately I realised that I'd forgotten to go the chemist for some nasal spray. Luckily there was a space on the High Street just 50 yards away from where I had originally parked, so I pulled in and dashed into the chemists.
• I bought the spray and had a laugh with the assistant who said it was the Isotonic version and she joked that I'd better be extra careful!
• Laughing I went back to the central carpark and, of course, no car!!!  Jeez, I thought what do I do? I'd left my mobile in the car.
• I returned to the hardware store and used their phone to dial 999.
• The operator brought up all my details in an instant, almost including my inside leg measurement! He said there would be someone there very shortly.
• I returned to the carpark and was wondering did I forget to lock it etc? Then I thought I'd better go onto the High Street to await the police.
• Then I immediately saw my car parked where I'd left it, opposite the chemists!  I saw blue lights and two cop cars pulled up, jamming the High Street.
• After I had explained, the cops said they'd cancel the alert and I was free to go. As I drove the 2 miles back to Newton Kyme I was reflecting on what a plonker I had been!
• However just as I turned off the main road there were two further cop cars waiting in a side road and immediately they raced towards me, boxing me in!
• Then a further (unmarked) police car arrived within seconds and boxed me in good and proper! Three cop cars in Newton Kyme. Is this a world record?
• One of the cops reached in and removed the ignition key just in case I had ideas of ramming the front car and making a break for it!
• I have to say they were all very courteous. I had to produce my photocard driving licence and insurance etc and they let me go. They were absolutely marvelous. They didn't heave me out and spreadeagle me across the cars like they do on American movies.
• Anybody driving by must have thought it was a serious drugs bust!

I have to admit to being somewhat disappointed that my friend wasn't spreadeagled over the bonnet but I can only say, there but for the grace of God go us all! Thanks for sharing! 

I couldn't find a suitable photograph so here's number 3 playing tennis with a wooden racquet that might well be as old as some of the characters featured above!

A tale of two black ties

About a month ago, this last weekend was designated as two early nights, a whole heap of gardening and some Strictly-watching, fire-hugging inaction. What it turned out to be was rather different...

It's not often that I find myself at two black tie events in the same weekend. It is much more likely to be two black tie events a year now that we have grown up (or at least grown more sedate) from our madly social thirties and forties. However, the truth is that twice this weekend, I put on my posh frock (not the same one, obviously) and killer heels for charity. But the two events were so hugely contrasting that I thought I should share. You never know, you might have been at one of them, but I think I can confidently say that I was the only person at both!

Friday night's formal event was held by, not for, Dementia Forward, the charity which I, as part of Acorn, am proud to support. The guest list was made up of Dementia Forward staff, volunteers and supporters - put me in the latter category - and clients and their husbands, wives and carers. It was a glorious celebration of two things. The first was the incredible achievement of winning the National Nursing Times award for Mental Health Care. This had been presented at Grosvenor House in London earlier in the week and is a great achievement for the team. They had rebelled against the one-size-fits-all approach to dementia, set up in their own right, taken a huge risk and made their service more client-centric that anything else on offer. And the Nursing Times rightly gave them the plaudits they so greatly deserve and held it up as an example to others. Brilliant!

The second excitement of the evening was in the guise of a premiere for a short film made by Dementia Forward and starring not just the workers and volunteers but also those lovely individuals and couples who are so easily written off and written out of the script of life. The film was incredibly moving and featured a screen kiss from the lovely Mack and Freda who are such keen participants in all that Dementia Forward offers. Their love and their life together are a testament to all of those affected by dementia. This was followed by an Oscars ceremony presented by my dear friend Patrick Dunlop of Strayfm who has magnificently helped us raise the profile of dementia in the area and did a stirling job of presenting the awards and kissing just about everybody who won!

All I can say is that every time I attend an event with Dementia Forward, whether it's Singing for Fun, one of the regular luncheons or last Friday's dinner, the room is so full of good feeling that I can float home on the memory of the courage, determination and selfless love of the people involved. If ever you're feeling sorry for yourself, go along and sing at Christ Church on a Thursday morning with the Dementia Forward group and I guarantee you'll feel better.

A mere twenty four hours later and I'm in the other dress and killer heels to attend the Firecracker Ball with my beloved. I suspect we may have been late replacements but we were happy to go and party on down. The Firecracker is the biggest fundraiser of the year for Barnardo's and they aim to raise over £100,000 so it was a seriously all-singing, all-dancing event from Bangla drummers and dancers, the biggest, sparkliest marquee I've ever been in and a really top band - Ali Campbell from UB40 no less. For me, however, the two highlights of the night were meeting the South Yorkshire Police Inspector who spoke bravely about child sexual exploitation in his area and was the main speaker at the Ball. He has an incredibly tough job to do and the press have rightly lambasted the Police for not tackling child grooming in the past. But it sounds like real progress is being made at last.

The second highlight was having my photograph taken with Bradley Wiggins - just before his minders put a stop to people coming up with exactly the same ridiculous request as me. Apparently he was there as a private guest. Top tip, Sir Bradders: if you don't want people to spot you at these events (and I was very polite when I asked for a photograph as you can imagine), then don't wear a grey pinstripe suit to a black tie dinner. My beloved pointed out that I was much braver about going up to Wiggo than I was when we were at a similar event a few years ago when Jonny Wilkinson was there. Simple explanation coming up: Wiggo is a man who wears lycra and cycles very, very fast. Jonny Wilkinson is a god. That is all.

So I'm posh-frocked out at the moment and looking forward to a quiet weekend where my most glamorous function is going to see my son play his trumpet in a concert in Harrogate. And that's enough for me.

Sir Bradley Wiggins with the only woman in the room without a spray tan or botox!

Postscript: Talking of trumpet-playing, number 3 played The Last Post at our village Remembrance Sunday service yet again. And I never cease to be moved to tears by it all. I now know there were just 52 villages in Great Britain where no lives were lost in World War 1. Ours was not amongst those 'Thankful Villages' as they are known and the death toll in our little village ran to double figures in that war. We rightly and respectfully remember them.

Waiting for the third thing

The rule of three or omne trium perfectum as it is correctly known is the phenomenon of things happening in threes and when two things have happened in this house I am always waiting for the third. It is no coincidence that my unpublished novel (yes, still trying to find an agent) is called The Rule of Three as this is a truth that holds good in our lives - for good or ill.

This week has been something of a minor disaster-fest at the little house on the prairie and things started unravelling on Wednesday. It was early evening and having cleared away the supper and restored order in the kitchen, I was lighting the fire in the sitting room accompanied by the junior dog who whines until the fire is lit and she can settle at my feet next to the pile of newspapers (I'm usually still working my way through the previous Saturday and Sunday papers until midweek). Amidst the crackling of the fire and noises from various televisions, a faint 'help' was audible - just. I assumed the sound had originated from one of the screens - wrongly as it turned out. Returning the coal bucket to the boiler room I encountered my beloved covered in debris. He had been sitting on the throne in the downstairs loo with his laptop on his knee when the ceiling collapsed on him! By way of explanation, about a month ago, we had a leak under the bath (directly above the aforementioned loo) which was fixed by our lovely plumber, Steve (of whom more later). He did say at the time that the waste pipe had been leaking for some time and things were fairly wet under the bath. We hoped that things would dry out in a satisfactory manner. They didn't - and the loo ceiling had disintegrated all over my beloved and the floor of the loo. A major clear-up was called for in the short term and a subsequent call to the insurance company.

Whilst all this domestic stuff was occurring, number 1 child has been in Los Angeles touting her acting skills around the film and television industry capital of the world - hopefully, with some success, and if things come to fruition no doubt it will be blogged about. Anyway the plan was for her to have the last two days of her three week trip to the States in San Francisco, staying in a nice hotel courtesy of her parents and having a look round that most unique cosmopolitan city. Due to fly out of LAX on Friday morning, or Friday evening UK time, to San Francisco before heading back to London on Sunday, all had been going well. Meanwhile on Friday evening we were in a pub (now there's a shock) with friends when my beloved's phone rang. It was number 1 asking us if we had heard the news of the gunman at LAX and that the airport had been evacuated. She was safe, of course, and luckily had somewhere to stay courtesy of the brother of my schoolfriend Genevieve who has been absolutely brilliant. But all domestic flights had been cancelled and she was not going to make it to San Francisco in the next twenty four hours. Cue my beloved re-organising hotels and flights because number 1 struggles with the phone and that makes life difficult over long distances.

Two disasters down and I am on the alert for the third. On Saturday morning I check the tyres and gears on my bike extra thoroughly before heading out - just in case. My beloved goes off with various weapons to go shooting (he always looks lovely when he's going out to kill things ... ) and I hope he's going to come back unscathed. Then England beat Australia and I think we're going to be ok. Maybe this time no third thing.

It's now twenty four hours after the airport crisis and we are still wrestling with the flights/accommodation issues in another continent because the domestic terminal is still closed. My beloved is cooking dinner whilst skypeing with number 1 and I am sorting out the fire with the whining dog and looking forward to Strictly. Then from the kitchen a yell of something much worse than the 'help' of earlier in the week. I dash through to find my beloved soaked to the skin doing the equivalent of 'Dutch boy with finger in the dyke' under the sink with a lot less success. The cold pipe (direct from the mains) has perished and our stopcock is almost impossible to turn. There is cold water rushing out all over the kitchen floor at considerable pressure. Cue child 3, my beloved and me with buckets and towels trying to stem the flow whilst we try to get hold of the lovely plumber again.

To cut a very long story short, we left a message on his mobile but that got no response and eventually I tracked his address down on the internet as he had once applied for planning permission (what a marvellous tool the internet is in a crisis - so much for anonymity!). I drove up the village, banged on his door, rang the bell and finished up hammering on the window in a way that might have been scary had it still been Halloween, before his daughter who rushes about on a tennis court with me in the summer came to the window. Because he is a very kind chap, he came out in the pouring rain and saved our bacon - well, our kitchen anyway and it no longer resembles a swimming pool.

Child 1 is on her way to San Francisco though she won't get further than the airport as she flies home from there without the time to explore the city and we have the number for a builder who might be able to repair the ceiling in the downstairs loo.

Deny the power of omne trium perfectum at your own risk!

Looking gorgeous when going out to kill things. He looked slightly less gorgeous when soaked in the kitchen later!

Windmills of your Mind

A small scrap of sadness this week. The death of Noel Harrison. The son of the actor, Rex Harrison who so brilliantly talked his way through the songs in the film of the musical My Fair Lady as Professor Higgins, Noel Harrison is otherwise only known to me as the singer of the Oscar-winning theme of The Thomas Crown Affair, Windmills of your Mind. Surprisingly, since I was only 12 at the time, I bought the single of Windmills of your Mind and its poignant lyrics still resonate with me now.

It seems an appropriate song for this time of year as autumn tends to have a less than uplifting effect on my own mental windmills and there seem to be a lot of endings and departings just now. Not that I didn't love the celebration of autumn colours on our last weekend trip to the Lakes to Low Graythwaite Hall with our village chums. The trees were definitely dressed in their stunning autumn best and the roaring evening fire that greeted us on arrival was perfectly in tune with the mood. After a massive and delicious feed, charades were next on the menu and no-one present is going to forget the singing dancing doctor's mime of The Pelican Brief for a long time! The following morning, segway (again!) and a picturesque walk round a rather small lake followed by a very big lunch was the order of the day before returning home to a surprisingly tidy house and two tired children, one of whom had had two very chilly nights under canvas. No, we didn't chuck him out, it was part of his A level PE.

On Tuesday we said farewell to a lovely man, Charlie Clayton, who had been in our outer circle of friends for more years than I care to recall and with whom I had also had the pleasure of working. He was just one year older than me and his funeral was a testament to his fun-filled, friend-packed, all-too-short life. He was a kind and generous man and if ever a funeral reflected this, his did in spades.

It's a sign of the season too when southern friends start dropping in to stay on their way to shoot in the North. However late at night the last glass of red is consumed, the following morning they are up early and dressed in their shooting breeks ready to be off and away to kill things. As long as they don't want me to join in, it's fine by me.

And then, my beloved's younger brother, with whom we have shared many holidays and so much fun, arrived on Friday. He is having a mid-life gap year and setting off this week to Austria to be a ski instructor for a season. His parents (MIL and my beloved's step-father) live nearby and they came for a slap-up tea, allowing me to indulge in some post-Great British Bake Off cake and scone-making and I am rather proud of my made-it-up-as-I-went-along blackberry and apple muffins. Less proud, of course, of my scones which I could have rebranded as fat biscuits!

Over breakfast this morning, we suggested to BIL (brother in law) that he adopt a different persona for every week of his sojourn as a ski instructor on the basis that he will be teaching a completely new group each time. We hope he will start with his own take on Leslie Phillips ("Ding Dong") as he has already mastered the voice. He seemed less keen on blacking up for a week even though my beloved offered him one of his many shades of make-up to take with him. Apparently, even Sri Lankan tones didn't appeal.

So, as I write, the autumn leaves are being ripped off the trees by Hurricane Jude and the last of the apples will no doubt be strewn across the lawn by the time we get back from watching Newcastle Falcons play London Irish at Kingston Park with our friend Declan O'Kidney this afternoon. Definitely time to batten down the hatches and prepare for winter.

If you'd like to listen to Noel Harrison, forever dressed in a polo neck sweater, which is how I remember him, here's the link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WEhS9Y9HYjU

Postscript: Between the writing of my blog and finally getting it out in the ether, another of my musical heroes, Lou Reed, has also passed away. Walk on the Wild Side was one of the anthems of my sixteen year old self, and had my parents been able to discern the lyrics they would, I am sure, not have allowed me to play it at such volume. "Hey babe, take a walk on the wild side..." http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0KaWSOlASWc

What Grannies get up to!

I don't know what the collective noun for grannies is but I'm working on it because we seem to have had a very granny-filled few days up here.

The intrepid granny arrived on Thursday and when she is about to join us for four days, or four weeks, I know I need to be well-rested and physically at my peak because grannies can be exhausting! TIG (the intrepid granny) arrived by train on Thursday lunchtime and before we had left the environs of York, we had to stop at the garden centre. Granny on a mission! Actually, TIG is especially good at doing all my pots and troughs in the garden so off we go round the garden centre picking up bargains of the plant and bulb variety using her special club membership - grannies certainly have an eye for a good deal! So car packed with suitcase, heather, pansies and bulbs we head back to the little house on the prairie for what was an action-packed and exhausting few days.

Thursday evening was the gala event for the Harrogate Antiques Fair and as each year, Acorn (my charity, in the membership sense) is the Fair's nominated charity, I had to head into town in the early evening appropriately dressed in my LBD for some hostessing/raffle ticket-selling action. My beloved and number 2 child brought TIG along for some wine-quaffing and general browsing later in the evening and she met up with a posse (there's the collective noun, now I come to think of it) of other grannies. A family dinner later and we're back home because we need to pace ourselves for the action ahead!

Friday morning and we're out early because granny, having threatened but not actually made any major purchases at the Antiques Fair the night before, needs retail therapy so a little light shopping in Harrogate was in order. We had to get back in plenty of time because she was being collected for some granny bridge which she and the granny posse of the night before had planned. I'm sure she said she'd be back in a couple of hours but nearly four hours later, and rather giddy, she returned. She absolutely assured me that no wine had been consumed (the jury is still out on this one) but she had acquired all sorts of village gossip (my village, not her's) that I didn't know. Aah, well, that's grannies for you - always in the know.

On Saturday morning, I headed up to the village courts for some social tennis and TIG said she would walk (about a mile and a half) up to meet me. She arrived, impressing my friends with her energy at walking from home. Actually, my beloved had given her lift to the end of the lane but we didn't let on! So wrapped in everyone's sweatshirts like a cricket umpire she watched the tennis, dodging the odd ball and refusing to be ball girl.

After lunch, I thought I might have forty winks on the settee as we were due to go out on Saturday night and I thought a pre-nap might be in order. Apparently TIG didn't notice me on the settee and bellowed at me at very short range to help her with the gardening. So much for a nap. She said something like ... I was wearing the same colours as the settee so she didn't notice me there ... but I think she was just cracking the whip really.

On Sunday morning, after a bit of personal-statement-for-university stuff with number 3, I'm back to the Antiques Fair for my three hour shift with number 2 child. More raffle ticket selling and then just as we are getting to the end, along comes TIG. She's checking out a few more jewellers and antique dealers before we go off for lunch at Betty's at Harlow Carr and a nice long walk round the gardens. No rest for the wicked then. So finally back home and as I glance at my facebook page, I see a video of another granny doing Gangnam Style along with her family on Saturday night.

How do they do it? I can barely keep up. Whatever they're on, we definitely need to be taking it.

Three generations and my mum (TIG) looking particularly fab!

The intrepid granny at Harlow Carr, refereeing the boxing hares.