Both Sides of the Footlights

The annual mother-daughter trip to London has taken place - except now it can be legitimately called the mother-mother-daughter-daughter-daughter trip, or perhaps the grandmother-mother-daughter-daughter trip as I fit into both mother and daughter camps. 

It started quite a few years ago when, to help us through the dark January I would arrange to meet the intrepid granny in London for a theatre visit, a little light shopping and a nice dinner. My end of the  deal? The theatre tickets. Granny's? Our accommodation at The Rag, or the Army and Navy Club as it is more correctly known. Back in the day, I could be confident of bringing down the average age of its clientele by at least 10 years, but now, like junior doctors and policemen, they all look a lot younger.

Over the years, we've sampled War Horse, Matilda, One Man Two Guvnors (when it was the hottest ticket in town with James Cordon in the lead), The Importance of Being Ernest, Miss Saigon and this year's offering, The Jersey Boys. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

First there was a little window shopping with a tour round Fortnum's where the intrepid granny kids herself that there will be bargains amongst the post-Christmas sale items. Even the mince pies. Christmas cakes and decorated biscuits didn't look like any kind of bargain to me. Fun to look, though. And then we went to meet my two oldest for dinner at the family-run Italian, just round the corner from the club. We've been a few times and they always get us out in time for the start of whatever show we're going to. 

And it's such a treat for both the grandmother and the mother, ie me, to have the two big ones to ourselves. Number 1 is in London in rehearsal for her play which starts in Plymouth in a couple of weeks and number 2 is in London every week running the power industry - or so it would appear to us proud parents. They're funny and chatty and the conversation ranges from deals and meetings to theatre and wedding invitations, and bridesmaid dresses, which, by the way, are still in a state of indecision. Then granny and I gallop off in search of a taxi to the Piccadilly theatre and the Jersey Boys - an unlikely choice from granny but a brilliant energetic, vibrant show as it turned out. And the girls went to the pub (you can take the girls out of Yorkshire but ...)

Now the thing about going to the theatre with the now rather aurally-challenged granny is that when we book we book disabled seats and these have to be done on the phone. So when the operator says "row C" you assume there is also a row A and a row B. Well, there isn't and we are in the front row whilst Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons sing, groove, dance, play various musical instruments and generally gyrate just inches from our heads. And the choice at various points in the action is either to be blinded by the spotlights if we looked at their faces, or keep our eyes on the action at knee-level and below. I can't speak for the intrepid granny but in my case it was mostly the latter.   Anyway, all good fun and then it's back to the club for a nightcap before retiring - in the entirely not ageist sense of the word.

The next day, with the intrepid granny safely tucked in a taxi and on her way to the station, I wended my way by foot and tube to a studio tucked next to the Old Vic where The Solid Life of Sugar Water was in rehearsal. Having seen the production twice at the Edinburgh Fringe last summer, it is a beautifully-written piece that number 1 is most fortunate to be a part of. And listening to Amit Sharma, the director, working with number 1 and Arthur Hughes for it is a two-hander, was such a lesson in reaching beyond the dialogue and into the intense emotional sub-structure beneath. Admiration doesn't even cover it; the power of not just the words and gestures but also the silences that lie between that Amit draws out from the performers is extraordinary. I can't wait to see it again at the National in March.

So a multilayering of female family relationships and a seat on both sides of the footlights has made for an unforgettable couple of days and the rest of January is less bleak as a result. 

Rehearsals in progress with a cameraman filming a documentary for television, apparently! 

Say Goodbye to 2015!

Last night, I stood on my chair (having removed my kitten heels) and made a speech to my friends entitled 'A Steep Upward Trajectory'. Given that I was speaking entirely off the cuff, as it were, with no prior plan of what I wanted to say in any more than the vaguest of terms, I chose a pretty difficult title after the number of cocktails and glasses of red wine I had consumed courtesy of Skip and Mrs Broccoli, for New Year's Eve was celebrated at their house this year. However, in the same manner that I think I know all the words to Friday I'm In Love by The Cure when I have consumed sufficient alcohol for the purposes of karaoke, I truly believed that I could stand on my chair and make a heartfelt speech to my chums. This morning, my beloved commented (and not for the first time) 'mercifully short'!

Why would I do this? Well, I have to say I have form in terms of chair-standing speechmaking but so long as I am brief, my friends are generally too polite to throw buns at me. But because January 2015 was a full-on, bottom-of-the-birdcage time in my life, to misquote Yazz, 'the only way was up!' and 2015 has been an upward journey, not without its hiccups, but most positively up. And those assembled last night have been very much instrumental in terms of my getting there.

Last New Year's Eve, which took place at the singing dancing doctors', the theme, I think, was European countries. So there was a tasteful smattering of lederhosen-wearing men and a full complement of Abba - who did a turn, of course. Me - well, it was as much as I could do to don my England rugby shirt (just one of a number of disappointing outings for the shirt as it turned out) and hope I made it through to midnight. I suppose I should have taken my hat off and gone as Telly Savalas whom I believe to have been of Greek origin but I'm afraid sense of humour was running very thin. During dinner, someone asked me what I had come as. "England", I said, thinking that it was obvious, only to be told that because it was a Canterbury rugby shirt, it was therefore New Zealand and not in Europe. I made it through to midnight, barely, and said goodbye to 2014 with a sigh of relief - 2014 being the year of the steep downward trajectory.

So since then, I have obediently taken everything our wonderful National Health Service wanted to throw at me and from early spring started to get better - and hairier! I managed to complete about a third of the Acorn Bike Ride in May, play some team tennis (not much but they did so well without me that we were promoted - yay!) and have a great holiday with friends. I started (occasionally) doing the Park Run and completed a Tough Mudder - big wow in my world!

But the best came almost last when number 2 went up the aisle on her father's arm a few weeks ago and married the lovely JS. Absolutely the happiest day for a very long time and thinking about it even now makes me smile.

 I can't tell you what a fantastic family and friends I have and how blessed I feel. And, importantly, I am learning (slowly) to listen to my body and be kinder to myself than of old.

So I wish you all a very healthy and happy 2016 (the first, the most because without health you have nothing) and that you - and I - continue our steep upward trajectory because life is good!

Post script: Before I managed to post this, life went on something of a downward trajectory with the loss of a granny. Sad times for the family and especially her many grandchildren. RIP GP.

Mother of the Bride On a Serious High!

The main reason I write my blog is not just for the joy of writing - which I do find quite joyous, incidentally - but for the ability to look back and recall the moments in my life that have made me so happy, and sometimes, so sad. And there have been quite a few of the latter over the last eighteen months. But for sheer bellybustingly, absolutely brilliant happiness, last weekend will definitely take some beating.

I can't give a blow-by-blow account of the whole weekend, nor can I view it from anyone else's perspective but my own or even attempt to be in the least bit objective. But I can tell you, and record it here so that I can look back on it in the months and years to come, some of the fabulous, incredibly special moments that made my daughter's wedding one of - if not The - happiest time in my life.

I now realise that watching your daughter get married is one of those things that you can't fully appreciate until it happens to you. And to have all my family all in the same place and all the people that I love most in the whole world right there, celebrating so something entirely wonderful - well, there are simply not enough superlatives in my vocabulary.

The months of preparation, spreadsheeting, collecting and delivering started to come to fruition on the Friday when we (the bride and I) arrived at Denton Hall. We had a meeting with the Box Tree team and the Denton team and I made a conscious decision not to interfere, intervene or interrupt - tough call for me! Afterwards, having more or less succeeded in not 'inter-ing', my daughter told me off for pulling faces - sometimes you just can't win.

After the rehearsal (oh my goodness, this is all getting a bit real now) during which the intrepid granny gave number 3 a tongue-lashing for slouching, not bowing at the altar and general lack of respectful behaviour in church, (see later...) we headed out for pizza/pasta 'en famille' as we would be for the very last time. Just us Barrs... and the intrepid granny. Then the three girls and I went back to Denton for our last night sleepover. All together in two double beds with chat and hugs, I loved it so much I suggested we should do this every Friday night. You can imagine the dull thud with which that landed but I didn't care.

The next day after an entire morning of titivating - hair, make up, getting the dresses on etc we were ready to walk the few yards to church. By now, the forecast had proved itself somewhat inaccurate - it was actually worse than predicted - horizontal rain and wind blowing across the valley with a venom. It didn't matter one bit. My lovely son (wearing an over-large suit because his father had insisted that his own waist and his son's were a similar size - duh!) walked me to church and down the aisle past the people who love the bride and groom and our families. We were in the choir stalls because although the mother of the bride i.e. me, has no official role in the service, number 3 was reading the lesson and it was perfect to be right next to my beloved when he gave his daughter away.

The whole wedding party looked breath-taking. My genetic masterplan for engineering beautiful daughters by marrying a man with a nose small enough to counteract my rather large conk seems to have paid off. And my friend Big T did point out that I had produced a neapolitan ice cream of daughters, blond, strawberry and chocolate - hair colour that is. My beloved sang his entirely own words to the hymns because he couldn't read the service sheet and number 3 absolutely rocked the lesson, proving that a tongue-lashing from the intrepid granny is sometimes well placed. He even bowed to the altar on the way to the lectern and on the way back, though on the return trip he bowed to the photographer instead as Giles was just moving out of the way at the time.

Despite having to dispense with the biodegradable confetti-throwing outside the church - weather getting worse now - we walked back to Denton Hall with only one or two umbrellas blown inside out and a few folks that sent for their cars to collect them.

The photographs by the fabulous Giles Rocholl (utterly brilliant and massively recommended) went past in a blur of relatives, groomsmen, hens, dog, and so on whilst the groomsmen - easy to spot in their blue suits - hoovered the canapés before they made it down to the far end of the room. The waiting staff were encouraged to avoid them but I suspect it was like trying to touch down the ball against a New Zealand ruck. And then through to the wedding breakfast in what must be the most glamorous cafeteria in Yorkshire!

And the speeches... In typical fashion, no father of the bride speechwriting had occurred in our house until Thursday evening when number 1 took control of the situation and made it all happen. I don't know why I worry (well, I do actually) because he absolutely pulled it off and I'm going to paste the speech at the end in case I ever lose the copy I have here. Lots of family jokes and bits that made me want to cry. He nailed it. (This is my blog so I am allowed to express my views without apology!)

The groom did a similarly good job with more references to number 2's achilles heel - cycling and balance in general - and the best men managed not to embarrass the groom too much though I suspect they could have done. And then the formal part was over and dancing and drinking were the order of the day.

Having cut the cake with Dad's sword which I think my new son in law enjoyed brandishing, even momentarily, the first dance started with the bride and groom making us all dewy-eyed before the family made their pitch invasion. In fact, this is one of my absolute stand-out moments. When you've watched years of bickering (and worse), practical joking, competitive behaviour and all the other things that go into siblings growing up together, there is something entirely magic about them all dancing, enjoying the special moment of us being all together and celebrating. I may go dewy-eyed again...

I woke up the next morning thinking I had probably been the most rubbish hostess. If that's the case, then please accept my apologies but I was having the best time and somehow all my hostess duties seemed to go out of my head with the joy of the day and the celebration. It was simply the best.

So thank you to everyone who came along and helped us celebrate. To Ian and Jean (the new in-laws) who know how to rock the dance floor and have produced the most delightful son-in-law. To everyone who helped to make it happen at the church, at Denton and from the Box Tree. And finally a few special thank you's from me. Firstly to the singing, dancing doctors who got me over the line healthwise, especially when events the previous week might have derailed me. To Jo at Lights4Fun and Sarah at Parlane for making us all very twinkly. To David Robinson at The Story of O for persuading my hair to be viable and styled for the day (which took us nearly all year to achieve from nothing in January!), to Elaine Thomas for painting all our nails and making me feel confident about my appearance over the last twelve months, Jessica Robinson for designing and making my hat which I only decided to have at the very last minute and especially to Jillian Welch. Jillian made my ensemble from an idea and a sketch and made the process of having an outfit made an absolute joy from start to finish.

And do you know what the best thing is? We'll be doing it all again in April and I can't wait!!

Father of the Bride Speech

1 Smile
2 Don't add any extra words - trust me you don't need them
3 Take your time - enjoy all the laughter you're going to get!



In the words of 'My Best Friend's Wedding', one of Antonia's favourite films, "If you love someone you say it, you say it right then, out loud. Otherwise the moment just passes you by." (Turn to Antonia and say/mouth I love you.)

I thought I would get thought out of the way in case I'm in trouble with my daughter by the end of this.

Well we are here to celebrate the marriage of two accountants. So it is probably no surprise that this entire wedding has been planned around a spreadsheet. In fact, on July 12th 2014 at 14.55 the same afternoon that Jonathan had proposed, I received the following text:

"Popping the ring on Antonia has unleashed a beast. She is marching around with the iPad making lists and lists in relation to the wedding! Relentless!"

For those of you who haven't met me I am Robert, the proud father of Antonia or what she would refer to as 'the missing cell'. I hope that is only because this is the only unplanned part of their fabulous wedding, clearly the part she has had no control over. So, though Antonia has the plan, I say I am the unplanned. Chaos may yet reign.

In the words of pppppppppppp porky pig....

You may hear a few references to Antonia's favourite film, Mrs Doubtfire. So to Antonia, all I can say is "Brace yourself Effie!"

But first I must manage to do some parts of my duty as father of the bride, which is to say a big thank you from Caroline and me, Ian and Jean, Jonathan and Antonia to all of you for making the huge effort to come here to Yorkshire, God's Own Country, in the depths of winter. To celebrate their happiness and ours. To celebrate their joining today in holy matrimony in the presence of the holy spigot... I mean spirit.

Most of you here today have only known Antonia as a grown up. But for some of us, you might think that has been the case since she was born. Because she was born with a tooth.

But from the very moment she was born, we have always known what an extraordinary woman she was going to develop into. And today she has undoubtedly taken my breath away with her stunning and commanding beauty.

It has been said that she takes after her Great Grandmother - Millicent - who was often likened to Attila the Hun and even Genghis Khan. Some of you who have known Antonia more recently may recognise this version. However, it was not always thus; in fact, when she was very young her first nickname was 'The Baddie'.

At the age of two, she brought Harrods to a standstill having covered her entire face and head in chocolate whilst we were sitting quietly oblivious to the effect she was having as we enjoyed our afternoon tea. She also used to frequently climb into the coal bucket when we were watching television.

When she was four, she progressed to the name 'The Wizza' - because she insisted on putting her clothes on back to front and we had to swizzle them round. A duty I am very happy to pass on to Jonathan now, for when Antonia had had too much to drink. Removing clothes has been known  to become extraordinarily difficult as well as finding house keys and so on...

So the Wizza... although hugely intelligent, The Whizza is quite capable of putting her foot in it. When aged 9 years old and at a scholarship interview for Harrogate Ladies' College, the headmistress asked Antonia where she saw her future career prospects, to which she replied: "As the manager of Formula 1." This interest in racing progressed into annual visits to Silverstone for Antonia and me where she demonstrated a far superior knowledge of Grand Prix than the other 15 boys and fathers on the same trip - a quality of which I was immensely proud. Whilst this is a more subdued hobby these days (except for her rather eccentric driving) she did ring me a few years ago very upset having discovered that Ferrari didn't make cars for anybody under the height of 5'4".

Going back to pppppppppppp porky pig, as a young girl, Antonia's most cherished and loved soft toy was a wee pink beastie called Pig Pog. The only kind of love and devotion I can compare her love of Pig Pog to is the love she has for Jonathan and his gorgeous dog Milton. For a while I thought it could have been mainly for his dog but I am sure today that it is Jonathan who comes first and Milton is, perhaps (only for today) taking the back seat. Usually Milton likes to drive!

Another reason Antonia is said to have taken after her great grandmother is because of her red hair. In primary school, she was always getting into trouble - matching her earlier reputation as The Baddie. She conveniently passed off any blame as being entirely attributable to her red hair claiming it made her far more noticeable when fleeing the scene of the crime.

Whilst this disclaimer is no longer used, you will still find that nothing is ever her fault. As Jonathan and all of her siblings will testify.

Dressing up was a big part of Antonia's middle years. At Warwick University, there are over 1,000 photographs of Antonia dressed in different outfits including many different hats. Whilst unfortunately her flourishing career doesn't give her much dressing up time these days, when not in London she is usually at Eggborough Power Station where she has a special children's sized hard hat and overalls to wear at work.

Although Caroline might not have red hair, there is a fearsome likeness between mother and daughter. And so as I turn to Jonathan to wish him my very best, I could pass on 30 years of experience. Perhaps today that might be unfair. And possibly even inappropriate. 

Some of you might know that one of the more infamous skill gaps in Antonia's life is cycling. Something she neglected to mention when she first met Jonathan. However, on her first proper introduction to Ian and Jean, whilst on holiday, she revealed this terrible vulnerability in a classic moment of attempting to steer round a corner (without stabilisers) and crashing headlong into the fence in front of her. 

Antonia insisted it was a "run-by fruiting' that distracted her and caused it. But none of us believed her.

As a father, I can only hope in passing the reins of care to Jonathan, that he might be able to help Antonia to avoid such accidents in the future. 

But seriously, it has been an immense pleasure watching Antonia grow up and seeing her achieve, time and time again, what for most of us would simply be unachievable. She has set goals that most of us would not even dream of accomplishing and whooped them with ease on every occasion. Prize after prize and top marks in everything she has set out to tackle. This makes me unspeakably proud and hugely delighted to have had the privilege of being her father and to have seen her go on to achieve the highest levels in her profession. I now pass the responsibility for her lifelong care into Jonathan's capable hands. Somehow I think they will take care of each other in equal measure just as they have evolved in their relationship so far - bottle for bottle, glass for glass, dog walk for dog walk. But Jonathan, any time you feel like you might be suffering, let me know and I look forward to meeting you at The Old Bell to map out our future strategy as we are now not just in-laws but officially partners-in-crime. 

Please raise a toast for ... Jonathan and Antonia. 

Drama on drama or just a case of really bad timing?

As the seasons turn in this north Yorkshire village, so we move from celebrating May Day complete with choreographed pole dancing (!), Feast (without the preposition, just Feast!) in the summer, through to Halloween, Remembrance Sunday and then to the Pantomime.

Each year, it is a joyfully hilarious celebration of gutsy singing, terrible jokes, audience participation, amazing costumes - especially for the dame - and sums up a great deal of what village life is about. Otherwise perfectly normal people paint false moustaches, dress up as members of the opposite sex, slap thighs and take custard pies... well, on the chin. The effort that goes into this is truly phenomenal and if it runs to nearly the length of The Ring Cycle, then so be it.

Normally the final night of the Panto would have been this Saturday but because two cast members of Robinson Crusoe and the Pirates - namely Robinson Crusoe herself and one of the aforementioned Pirates - will be joining us at The Wedding, the Panto started a day early in order to release them for our own celebration. So it would have been churlish not to go along last Friday. Actually it would have taken several wild horses for us to miss it. Who can forget the multitude of nearly completed costume changes by the dame - great wiggle in the Beyonce dress, I thought! Or the orange starfish, or indeed the tightness of the trousers of one of the cricket team... Enough drama to sustain us until our own drama begins this weekend. Or so we thought...

Waking up with excruciating chest pains and an inability to breath at 1.00am that night was not in the plan. I eventually managed to sit up and call my beloved for help. If I said it was frightening I don't think fear actually entered my head. I was too busy trying to breathe against the tightening across my chest and upper arms. My beloved suggested he call the dancing doctor (married to the singing doctor who had been slapping her thigh as Robinson Crusoe earlier in the evening). I nodded, because it was hard enough to breathe, let alone speak. Within a very few minutes (he must sleep with his clothes on) he was there, taking my pulse - 'weak, thready' and taking in my obviously not-looking-my best appearance. Hospital, he pronounced. My beloved immediately said he would take me. I was breathing somewhere near normally by now but not taking much part in events. No, paramedics, now.

OK, I am now alert enough to be panicking myself and all I can see is my beautiful outfit for my beautiful daughter's beautiful wedding hanging on the front of the wardrobe. I might not get to wear this... (My number 1 daughter who read this in draft form would like me to point out here that it was not because I thought I was dying but more worried about how long I might be hospitalised for.) Don't let anyone tell you that the NHS is not brilliant in a crisis. Fifteen minutes later, my bedroom (not that big) is populated by me, my beloved, the dancing doctor, 3 paramedics and a machine rather larger than a microwave which has enough wires for broadband attached to various parts of me.

Now although nothing like this has ever happened to me before, I was feeling a bit of a fraud by now, but no amount of pleading was going to stop the paramedics taking me to hospital for what turned into a night of blood tests and chest x-rays. The long and short of it being that everything came back negative and although I've felt poorly for a few days I am now starting to feel better in time for the big day.

So thank you to the cast of thousands who made the panto so brilliant (see it if you can...) and to a similar sized cast who made sure that I am going to make it to the wedding - although it's only Thursday and so much could yet go wrong... The NHS is wonderful, everyone who looked after me here and at Harrogate Hospital was absolutely fantastic and worth every penny and more that we pay in tax.

So just a case of really bad timing? Oh no it isn't... Oh yes it is!

I wrote this last week before The Big Day which turned out to be the most wonderful, happiest weekend of my life so far. But you'll have to wait for the blog which may turn out to be of similar epic proportions to the aforementioned panto!! 

Wedding Fever - Getting a bit soppy here...

We are now rapidly counting down to the first of our children's weddings - number 2 marries the lovely JS in less than three weeks and it feels as though we have gone from serenely cruising towards the big day to rushing at it headlong. Nearly everything has been organised - most of it ages ago and nearly every detail micro-managed by the bride to be - as those of us who know her would expect!

But the significance of the day, the real meaning of all this dashing about with fabric swatches, lighting schemes, flower and hymn choices, has come home to roost now with me. For most importantly, their wedding day is just the first day of a life together of every days. Whilst we have had weeks and months planning the minutiae, now the greater significance of what lies ahead on November 28th is front and centre - a notion which perhaps one has to have been married for many years to truly understand.

A few weeks ago we were looking for suitable readings for the wedding of bride number 2, aka daughter number 1, who will be making her own way down the aisle at the end of April 2016. In our modern world, readings are not confined to the Bible or at best, the Bard. Now the bride and groom seek out passages and poems which mean a lot to them or reflect most closely their feelings for each other. In the course of looking out some readings for them, I found a number which resonated with me, and having taken out their choices - because it would be unfair to let the cat out of the bag at this point - I thought I would share some of them here.

It has to be said that perhaps they would not have been my choices thirty one and a half years ago. Shamefully, I cannot remember the reading we had on the day and my memories of the service are fleeting at best. Perhaps it takes the roller coaster of life together to shape one's thoughts and emotions on what it means to love and be loved, and to marry and be married. So here are a few which I thought were particularly beautiful. Not chosen by either of the current stock of brides but, you never know, by the end of April it will be two down and two to go so perhaps they will yet get an airing...

Once upon a time, there was a boy. He lived in a village that no longer exists, in a house that no longer exists, on the edge of a field that no longer exists, where everything was discovered, and everything was possible. A stick could be a sword, a pebble could be a diamond, a tree, a castle. Once upon a time, there was a boy who lived in a house across the field, from a girl who no longer exists. They made up a thousand games. She was queen and he was king. In the autumn light her hair shone like a crown. They collected the world in small handfuls, and when the sky grew dark, and they parted with leaves in their hair.

Once upon a time there was a boy who loved a girl, and her laughter was a question he wanted to spend his whole life answering.

"It doesn't interest me what you do for a living. I want to know what you ache for, and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart's longing.
It doesn't interest me how old you are. I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for your dream, for the adventure of being alive.
It doesn't interest me what planets are squaring with your moon. I want to know if you have touched the center of your own sorrow, if you have been opened by life's betrayals or have become shriveled and closed from fear of further pain. I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine or your own, without moving to hide it or fade it or fix it.
I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own, if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful, to be realistic, to remember the limitations of being human.
It doesn't interest me if the story you are telling me is true. I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself; if you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul; if you can be faithless and therefore trustworthy.
I want to know if you can see beauty, even when it's not pretty, every day, and if you can source your own life from its presence.
I want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine, and still stand on the edge of the lake and shout to the silver of the full moon, ‘Yes!’
It doesn't interest me to know where you live or how much money you have. I want to know if you can get up, after the night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone, and do what needs to be done to feed the children.
It doesn't interest me who you know or how you came to be here. I want to know if you will stand alone in the center of the fire with me and not shrink back....

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,

or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.

I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,

in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms

but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;

thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,

risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.

I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;

so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,

so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,

so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep. 

Love. How to describe it? So that it endures - not gouged out like a scar on the all-too-visible soul but encrusted on the heart like a secret jewel. Sometimes only seen or felt by the two of you. And then at other times, it will shine like a beacon and other folks and fools will tell you how lucky you are. 

Don’t listen to people who tell you how lucky you are to find love. Perhaps your meeting was luck... or perhaps it was written in the stars. But what lies ahead has nothing to do with luck. Your commitment to each other - spoken here in front of those who love you more than you can ever know - is so much more than a moment of words. 

Love lies in the determination to face life’s challenges together. It lies in taking the bad with the good. On a sunny, happy day, you cannot imagine the mountains that will have to be climbed in unsuitable shoes.

You commit to each other a lifetime of making a home in your hearts - perhaps it will need to be big enough for a whole family. You commit to being the best you can be even when all you want to offer up is your worst. You commit to making decisions which are best for you both and not just for yourself. Harder than you might think. 

Love each other every day. Forgive each other for all your failings, however miserable. Share all the joy in equal measures for each other. Laugh together. Be the missing pieces in each other’s jigsaw. Not just for this blissful moment, but for always. 

Rugby, Ball and Tough Mudders!

So now all the Northern Hemisphere nations are out of the Rugby World Cup, it's time to tot up the positives and negatives of the whole experience - at least from my point of view and accepting that others may disagree.

The first positive is that we didn't pay stupid amounts of money to go to Twickenham. We went to two great matches - one at Elland Road: Scotland v USA. Lots of running rugby, great atmosphere and ... happy men in kilts in quantity. For women of a certain age, this is perfection. The second match was at St James' Park in Newcastle and it was great to see the All Blacks play for the first time  (for me) and was part of a rather eventful evening of which more later.

Also no Stuart Barnes on the commentary team on ITV. Joy! He is surely the biggest killjoy of English rugby. Yes we were, and are, fabulous hosts but realistically we cannot cut the mustard in the world game anymore.

So the honest negatives: the pool of death - why did they do the draw three years before the event? Also being pragmatic, when the winner of the European player of the year for the last three years is English (one of those being Jonny obviously) why would you not get over yourself and pick Nick Abendenon and Steffon Armitage? Then there's the decision to let a player from another code cut his teeth on international rugby in the World Cup. Daft. And finally, what bright spark thought Paloma Faith should murder "The World in Yoooooooniyon" umpteen times a day? If I was Henry VIII I would have had her beheaded by now.

So on a more personal note, a week ago we managed to combine three of my most favourite things: seeing my gorgeous children (two out of four ain't bad), watching top class rugby and grooving round the dance floor with my beloved. A few weeks ago, the aforementioned told me we were going to a ball in Newcastle on a Friday night. No, I told him. I have an appointment with two hakas - All Blacks and Tonga - at St James' Park. So after a little toing and froing, we agreed that my beloved's partner for the ball would be number 4 child who would come down from Edinburgh and I would go on from the sub's bench after the rugby which I was attending with number 3 child.

But first we had to check in to our hotel which was - bonus for me! - full of Samoan rugby players. In fact, we conclusively proved that only 3 Samoan rugby players will fit in a standard hotel lift with no room for anyone else. And they were lovely, posing for photographs with the twins and generally being delightful. Alesana Tuilagi who plays for Newcastle Falcons and therefore a properly lovely chap, posed with both children.

So number 3 and I headed off to St James' Park, watched rugby and had a great time (another negative - see above - no Guinness! Rugby should always be accompanied by Guinness, surely everyone knows that!) and then returned to the hotel where number 3 was looking very gorgeous and had had dinner with my beloved and his delightful colleagues. It took less than an hour to walk from St James' Park, change out of my England rugby shirt and jeans and into my posh frock and be on the dance floor with my beloved. Not bad, eh?

And now a week on and I have today done my first Tough Mudder. This was one of Acorn's last events as we are winding up the charity next year so somehow I found myself not marshalling which was what I had intended to do, but running with Lady H. We started at the back (but that's not where we finished!) and headed off over fences and obstacles, struggling through ponds which had water shoulder-high for short folks like me and up hill and down dale over muddy terrain for a full 10k. So not last, but nearly - but more importantly, a year ago I could scarcely walk to the bottom of the garden and this week I have had my final cancer treatment (nurse with comedy-large syringe!) and now I can do a Tough Mudder! Happy me!

Barcelona... as Bookends.

So we've had three glorious days in Barcelona - one of our most favourite places  - and this time it has had a special significance.

This is our third visit to this eclectic, exhilarating city and each time we find new places to explore and old haunts to revisit. We have our 'must-do' restaurants and bars, shops and sights but this city of wide tree-lined boulevards and twisting narrow alleys always holds surprises. Why do we love it? Because it embraces the cosmopolitan (more later!) whilst remaining passionately Catalan. Because every museum, shop and bar packs a welcome to all whilst remaining sleek and stylish (can you imagine saying that about Leeds or York?) and the Catalan is very much on show as we arrive the day after the local elections. There are flags in the upstairs windows of every building declaring their allegiance to the independence of the red and yellow stripes. 

New things to us this this time included A Walk with Gaudi which having spent so much time at La Sagrada Familia on our last visit was the perfect way to try to understand Gaudi's use of light, colour and the shapes of nature. We also visited the underground Roman city and walked amongst its dye shops, wineries and laundries. But the highlight was certainly the Xavier Miserachs exhibition at the Museum of Modern Art. The Blanc i Negre exhibition of photographs from the early 1960s is an emotive tour of the faces and life of those times in Barcelona by the celebrated photographerhttp://www.macba.cat/en/el-born-barcelona-1964-serie-barcelona-blanc-i-negre-4382. 

But as this is a short break with my beloved, it must also be a gastronomic tour. Included then is a return visit to Agua where the bustling city meets the beach culture and the superb food is accompanied by watching people learning to walk the high wire tied between two palm trees - just for fun! This is where we celebrated our 30th wedding anniversary in 2014. Returns too to two very contrasting tapas bars - Catalana on the Carrer de Mallorca where you fight for a seat at the bar amongst the suits and the tourists and the tapas and wine are delivered by expert and rapid bar staff. And to Irati, another tapas favourite which nestles in a narrow alley near Las Ramblas and could so easily be missed. Here you point to the tapas on the bar top and help yourself, waiting for the moment when the delicious hot tapas come from the kitchen and you hope that they make it far enough down the bar to reach you. Each succulent morsel has a cocktail stick in it and when you're done they just tot up the sticks and present you with a bill. 

And our new gastronomic discovery is an Argentinian restaurant where the steaks are sublime and the service quirky but very generous. And we have found indisputably the best best rooftop cocktail bar at The Majestic where I may have had one too many cosmopolitans...

So why is this visit of such significance? In April 2014 when we celebrated our 30th wedding anniversary in Barcelona I found the lump which was the start of my year of treatment, and by going back to Barcelona - perhaps not quite the same person as I was then - I feel I have put a full stop to that time. Enough... I may not be as brave or full of energy as I once was but I am here and looking at life in a new way. Even if I don't look the same (still getting used to that...)

Back in glorious Yorkshire walking across the fields of stubble with two dogs whilst the woodland shows the first glimpses of autumn colour I know that that chapter of my life is now complete with Barcelona as bookends. Fingers always crossed...