Going Large at the Fringe!

We weren't going to go to the Edinburgh Festival this year. Too much other stuff going on... holidays, weddings and, most importantly, a new grandchild. Then number 4 made good on her birthday present to her father of two tickets to the Gin Experience just off Princes Street and suddenly we're booking all kinds of stuff around what is going to be a whole weekend in Auld Reekie.

Now I know some people really go for it at the Festival/Fringe, packing in so many events that they finish up running out of performances ten minutes before the end to go on to the next big thing. I'm not up for that and since my beloved - though on a major and thus far very successful diet - needs time to eat and relax, I am mindful of how much we can pack into two days and two nights. Comfortably. I do my homework, check out what's rated by the critics, try to find the 'hot' tickets and look for old favourites from previous years.

So we arrive at Waverley station on Saturday lunchtime with an hour and a half to walk to our hotel, pick up our tickets from the ticket office and make our way to the first venue in time for an a cappella concert by the Alternotives. Our base is to be the Royal Scots Club which is centrally located and brings back happy memories of the late great Uncle Bill. Uncle Bill was a member of this fine establishment and on the occasion of number 1's graduation brought us here for lunch to celebrate. We can do this... so a brisk 20 minute walk each way in the sunshine, we manage all those things and arrive in plenty of time for the Alternotives who absolutely blow us away with their brilliant singing. Definitely a great start! https://tickets.edfringe.com/whats-on/alternotive-a-cappella

It's a beautiful day in Edinburgh and so the perfect opportunity to climb aboard the Festival Wheel in Princes Street Gardens. Stunning views right across the city, to Arthur's Seat and out to sea. Then we make our way to George Square where we sample some delicious street food before we go to our next Fringe event 'Six' in the great purple auditorium which is the Udderbelly. Six would be my stand-out pick of the Fringe events we attended and is making its way to London next - definitely worth seeing. https://www.sixthemusical.com

Next stop is our 'bucket list pick', the Edinburgh Tattoo, kindly sponsored by the intrepid granny. This takes place in the courtyard in front of Edinburgh Castle at the top of the Royal Mile. Bustling our way through tourists, street theatre (where else would you see a man in pink underpants on top of a ladder juggling daggers?) and touts, we join the huge queue to the bag-check and into the vast arena. We have amazing seats (courtesy of the intrepid granny) and as well as the wonderful pipes and drums, there's a fab Swiss Top Secret Drum Corps and dancers galore, with beautiful images projected on the castle walls. The finale, with all the cast on stage, is the piper on the castle walls piping into the silence before the fireworks erupt around us, blazing across the night sky. https://www.edintattoo.co.uk

We wake up on Sunday morning to a drizzly dank day outside but breakfast in this proper old club is the perfect belly-buster and will keep us going till... coffee time?! The Scottish National Portrait Gallery is a mere couple of streets away and my beloved is keen to see the amazing portraits so we get our fix of the heroes (and not so much) of Scotland from Mary Queen of Scots and Lord Darnley to Andy and Jamie Murray. https://www.nationalgalleries.org/visit/scottish-national-portrait-gallery

The weather outside is grim but we make our way across the city centre to our first show of the day which is Michael Morpurgo's Private Peaceful, an incredibly moving one-man play set in the First World War. Here's where I seriously take issue with folks who try to do too much and dash out of one show ten minutes before the end (at a very emotional moment), disturbing the audience in order to get in the queue for whatever they've booked next. Michael Morpurgo's vivid portrayal of the unimaginable terrors of this period of history strikes - as in War Horse - with a deep and thought-provoking resonance. http://www.underbellyedinburgh.co.uk/whats-on/private-peaceful-by-michael-morpurgo?updated=1531872000#calendar-08-2018

To avoid the unrelenting drizzle/sea fret, we dive into a Vietnamese restaurant for a bowl of noodles and spicy meat (beef him, duck me) and then, after a brief respite, we head out to join the big queue of the late afternoon which is for Maureen Lipman. A glance down the line reveals that we are, unusually for the Fringe, at the younger end of the audience range. As in all queues across the weekend, we tend to chat, asking folks what they've been to see, what was good and so on. Our queue-buddies reel off a list of television personalities who are chancing their arm at the Fringe this year, mostly at the older end of the spectrum. Now I like Maureen Lipman - wonderful impressions of  Joyce Grenfell, fabulous monologues and razor-sharp wit - but this is not what we get. Disappointingly this is a rambling ragbag of a show with so much padding that there's more 'pad' than 'bag'. Shame. https://www.theguardian.com/stage/2018/aug/06/maureen-lipman-is-up-for-it-review-big-personalities-old-jokes-and-smooth-music

Get dry, warm up and off to queue again, this time for Andrew Maxwell who made number 4 and me laugh so much at last year's Fringe, that I was in pain. I don't tend to find lots of use of the f-word funny but his sharp, well-observed humour (splattered with the aforementioned f...) is just brilliant. If I was going to be picky, yes, I thought last year he was funnier but it was a very exhaustingly laughter-filled hour - and we were definitely not the youngest in the audience. I'm a fan. https://www.comedy.co.uk/fringe/2018/andrew_maxwell/

Our last morning and the sea fret is so bad that you can't see the Castle from Princes Street. And my beloved needs to work so I'm off with the brolly to the Edinburgh Book Festival in Charlotte Square. https://www.edbookfest.co.uk This is an absolute joy for someone who can happily spend hours browsing in book shops. I've made the mistake in Edinburgh before of buying loads of books to bring home as presents (and for personal use) and then discovered that books are heavy travelling companions. But whilst there is a huge marquee full of great books for adults to browse, there is just as big a marquee for children's books. I have been building up a library of books for my grandson (now aged four weeks) comprising the books I loved to read with my own children - Mog and Bunny, Five Minutes Peace, Winnie the Pooh, Whatever Next, The Very Hungry Caterpillar and so on with additions of dinosaur titles and the Gruffalo. Before the grandson arrived, I would gather up my selection of children's titles in local bookshops, head to the counter and whilst zapping my credit card manage to burst into tears explaining why I was buying these books. "It's for my...future grandchild...blub, blub, blub". This must have been very alarming for the shop assistant, I realise. But I've trained myself now and perhaps because he's actually here, I am slightly (but only slightly) less emotional.

My beloved finally emerges from his work to join me in time for the Gin Experience https://www.edinburghgin.com/our-gins and it's brilliant. Callum, our guide, explains the history of gin - Mother's Ruin - and takes us into the tiny distillery to see the stuff being made. Then our group of about 10 all pack into a cellar and taste Seaside Gin, Cannonball Gin (too strong for me) and a host of liqueurs including Elderflower - delicious - and Raspberry - dare I say it, not quite as good as my homemade but possibly less alcoholic! Feeling a bit woozy by this time, we walk briskly back to the hotel to get our bags and then go for a big bowl of pasta at Amarone to soak up the alcohol.

Special times with my beloved in this great city!

A change of status.

It's not often that I become something else. Changing what you are for the rest of your life makes you feel as if the world has shifted ever so slightly on its axis. And yet, that is exactly where I find myself. My capacity for loving my family had achieved the max ... or so I thought... And then along comes a new person who, despite only weighing 7 and a half pounds, not a walker or a talker yet - not even a smiler, in fact - and he changes everything.

When number 1 asked a few months ago if she and her husband could move into the barn (not a baby Jesus scenario - it is converted into a dwelling of sorts) so that their baby could be born in God's own country rather than in the smelly old metropolis, we could scarcely believe our luck. Not entirely true - I could scarcely believe my luck and my beloved agreed grudgingly to give up his man cave. Clearing, disposing and cleaning has been the order of the day for the last few months and since we have been, for more years than I care to think, a depository for other family members' - living and dead - clutter, this cathartic cleansing has been definitely a good thing.

On arrival, number 1's nesting instinct was at full throttle. Not only was the downstairs of the barn turned into a lovely sitting area as it had always been intended before my beloved's hoarding instinct and our fellow family members' desire to dump their 'I-might-need-it-one-day' stuff on us took over but she felt the need to clear out all sorts of cupboards in the house as well. And 'borrow' various bits of furniture that would 'go' in the barn. There was a sort of tidal swapping of furniture and general clobber between the barn and my office and the good stuff was definitely heading out of the front door and across the yard, whilst the other was heading into my office to be stored, sold, given away, taken to the tip and so on.

Meanwhile, arrangements for the birth of a very small person in Yorkshire rather than London involved registering with doctors, midwives, hospitals and so on. For the second time, I accompanied number 1 to see the midwife (I'd already done this in London) and sat aghast at how times had changed since numbers 3 and 4 had made their appearance. There were definitely moments when I wondered how my four survived their whole childhood and how different was the advice given to prospective parents now. No matter. My role is to do as I'm told and only proffer advice when actually asked for it. (Very difficult to achieve as it turns out).

We scarcely made it back from our holiday in Cyprus and Turkey before things started kicking off. Week 39 and the midwife told number 1 lots of encouraging things about her state of health and concurred that she could train it down to London the following day for an audition. I'm gobsmacked but there's no stopping her. Shall I come with you? No. I'll pay for an Uber so you don't have to get the tube. More no.

But when she didn't feel quite right on the return journey from London, it was straight to Harrogate Hospital for a few checks. Meanwhile, we went to the pub with Four Candles and Boadicea only to discover we'd picked a pub with no mobile phone signal. As we headed home several hours later, we were bombarded with messages to ring now, come home NOW etc etc. The drama had begun...

Well nature took its course in its own sweet time meaning that labour took Friday night, all day Saturday during which I made jars and jars of redcurrant jelly to distract myself from the thought of my child in pain and then Saturday night. Having the self control not to phone and text hourly whilst all this was going on was nearly too much for me. Sunday morning dawned and we'd heard nothing. I went to church to see if God could get things going any quicker to discover that whilst I had been out, my grandson had finally made an appearance.

I'm not going to cry when I go to hospital. I'm not, I'm not, I'm not. I did. Multiple times. But I make no apology. If you're going to cry about something, isn't this absolutely the best reason in the world? I'm a granny!

Snakes, hostile crossings and a little knowledge is a dangerous thing!

This year's summer holiday for my beloved and me has taken the form of a two-centre (look at me! travel trade lingo!) event starting with a visit to lovely friends Nigel and Sarah in Cyprus. This is my second trip to their beautiful home but the first for my beloved. We were made very welcome by our lovely hosts and we enjoyed a few days of relaxing, catching up, eating, drinking, tennis with the Nomads and ...snakes. 

My children will confirm that I am not keen on reptiles generally. I can handle (though not literally) a small gekko, but anything bigger - and particularly one without actual feet - is a scary prospect. Indeed, when I used to take the children to Regents Park Zoo, I would wait outside while they went in the reptile house. No, reptiles are not for me. 

I know from my previous visits to Cyprus that there are snakes of the poisonous and non-poisonous varieties but until this occasion, I hadn't actually come nose to nose with one. On a walk through the forest, with two sturdy men with sticks, Sarah and I encountered my first black snake, whisking rapidly off the path and into the undergrowth before we got too near. We grabbed each other, shrieked, and looked for support but naturally the sturdy men with sticks were at least 50 yards behind and of no conceivable use. Unscathed but more nervous than before, my beloved and I were then told about the snakes in the pump room UNDER THE HOUSE!!! "We think they're breeding so we don't want to disturb them." Me: "How many babies do they have?" "Over a hundred." Eek! 

Then we actually saw the snaky couple - one about six foot, the daddy nearer eight, attempting to climb up the wall of the house! Now I'm checking under the bed, locking the bedroom door and going nowhere near the ssssnake - sorry - pump room. What may have saved my bacon was the arrival of a big digger in the garden bringing two huge ancient wine jars as garden ornaments. I can only assume that the vibration of the heavy machinery scared the snakes off because we didn't see them or any of their potentially huge family again - phew!  

Our other adventure was accidental gate-crashing. In the spirit of 'go large or go home!' we decided we would go for drinks at the beautiful 5*  Anassa Hotel which is seriously high-end (millionaire  Philip Green had his 50th birthday party there with a gang of supermodels and celebrities). We were warmly greeted by staff in the car park, taken by golf buggy to the front entrance and we made our way through the elegant marble foyer to the terrace. We were offered champagne cocktails which initially we refused but the waiting staff were so persistent that we felt it would be rude to say no. We sat admiring the view, drinking cocktails and politely refusing canapés when we became aware that we were receiving less than friendly glares from a smartly-dressed gentleman who appeared to be hosting a big group. Finishing our drinks, we got up to leave but were detained by a professional photographer who insisted on taking our picture and then kindly took some more on our phones. It was only when we made out way back into the hotel that we glanced behind us to see that we had joined in a private cocktail party. Oh dear! Fun though! 

Our few days with Nigel and Sarah came to an end but the bit of the holiday that I was nervous about (before I knew about the snakes, obviously)  was just beginning. Bit of background required here: Back in the 1970s there was a civil war in Cyprus between the Greek Cypriots (now living in the country we know as Cyprus) and the Turkish Cypriots, resulting in a division of the country which runs through the capital, Nicosia. The hostilities are still so keenly felt by both the Greek and Turkish Cypriots that the border was only opened to Cypriots in 2003, some thirty years after the war. Parts of Turkish Cyprus are still no-go areas, most notably Famagusta which had been regarded as one of the most beautiful beach resorts in the world. Travel between Cyprus and mainland Turkey for the most part does not exist and no airport in Cyprus flies to mainland Turkey. 

So how to get from Cyprus to Kalkan in Turkey? Our lovely hosts offered to drive us across the border in Nicosia to Ercan Airport in Turkish Cyprus from whence we could fly to Antalya in mainland Turkey and drive to Kalkan. We queued at the border in Nicosia watched over by gun-toting Greeks and then gun-toting Turks having driven through the UN peace-keeping zone between the two countries. I know some people do this every day, but for me, it was nerve-wracking. Particularly when they took our passports and Nigel had to go back and get them a few minutes later. 

Our impression of Turkish Cyprus? We were only on the (almost empty) main road to the airport but there is lots of new build, flash car showrooms, impressive university buildings, big statement Turkish flags but precious few people. Our hosts were going on to Kyrenia for the weekend so they will have a better understanding. 

Saying goodbye to our lovely friends, we headed into the airport and all went swimmingly until we went through passport control. I am one of those people who seldom has the appropriate riposte at the right moment and I often wake up in the middle of the night thinking of what I should have said but wasn't quick-witted enough at the time. For once, I managed to avoid dropping myself in it... "Which airport did you fly into?" the uniformed customs official asked, examining my passport. Clearly the answer to this question was not Paphos! "We're flying to Antalya," I answered guilelessly. He stared hard at me - we are so obviously tourists and this is not a tourist route. Eventually - long pause - he said "No matter," and handed me back my passport. Phew! 

So we flew from Ercan to Antalya in a packed plane of Turkish people and one cat, endured the usual car hire shenanigans and managed to get so spectacularly lost in Antalya that we finished up on the hairpin bends of the coast road at two o'clock in the morning. But we made it to number 2 and J Stocko's pad in Kalkan and perhaps we won't try that route again. 

And finally... A little knowledge is a dangerous thing... I have an app on my phone called Find My Friends. It should actually be renamed Find My Children. I use it to track offspring primarily so I know they're safe. I know, I know, I'm a mum, I can't help it. So I was checking whether number 4 was working a night shift at the hospital in London where she is a nurse the other evening about 10.20pm Turkey time. She was, and so whilst I was on the app I checked number 2 who was also still at work. Number 3 won't engage in this - he calls it stalking. Hmmm... But number 1 appeared to be at Harrogate Hospital. And she's 37 weeks pregnant!!!!!! Panic! I ring my son-in-law. "You're at the Hospital!!!! What's going on?????" "It's a secret" he says conspiratorially before telling me that it's only 8.20 in the UK and they are at ante-natal class. I could hear them giggling from 2,000 miles away. I am a fool.  

A change is as good as a ...?

I like change. And I like routine. And the combination of the two is what makes life interesting - the comfort and safety of a schedule of habits and familiar moves broken by unexpected bends in the road. But too much of either can be not necessarily a good thing. Too much routine and life becomes dull and uneventful and the appreciation of the small things in life fades with the tedium. Too much change and stress levels rise and I long for the peaceful repetition of remembered things.

And change has been the order of the day in spades recently - some very good and some definitely less so.

The intrepid granny, known for her adventurous holidays, sporting passions (playing and watching) and her love of gin, decided to move house ... after 52 years. Yes, 52 years ago, she bunked me off school - Lord knows what important skills I may have missed on that day - brain surgery perhaps? - and she and I moved from the great Victorian pile in Leamington Spa to a slightly smaller house with a big garden and a paddock for my pony just outside a village near Warwick. Scroll on through time and my brother and I grew up and left home, my father sadly passed away and the intrepid granny continued to live there alone for nearly thirty years. We encouraged her to move in vain - to God's own country or at least to somewhere in a town - but she was having none of it. And then last year, when we had long given up, she calmly bought a house off-plan in Warwick and put the family home up for sale. 

It's taken a year to build her super doopah new home and just as long to clear out 52 years of clutter. Yes, some of the clutter was lovely and full of memories but lots of it hadn't seen the light of day since I left home over 40 years ago. But finally moving week came and I headed to the Midlands to be Mr Shifter. https://www.bing.com/videos/search?q=mr+shifter&&view=detail&mid=623F64BBD5B1FA4D0506623F64BBD5B1FA4D0506&&FORM=VRDGAR

Full of dread that she wouldn't like it (she'd been to look a few weeks prior to moving day and at that point, she definitely didn't!), that she'd hate moving out of her home of so many years, that all manner of moving elements would go wrong, and so on... so this had not been something to anticipate with pleasure. And then, blow me down, none of those things happened and it all went well and she loves her new home and every time we speak (every day!) her voice is so full of excitement for each new day in her new home. Result! 

And through it all, my little dog came too. And when we returned to Yorkshire on the Friday night, she was happy to be home for what turned out to be her last days. On our Sunday morning walk, she died sadly and unexpectedly and now she is buried in the garden with the other late family dogs, Henry and Mollie. Each morning I miss her wagging tail, her insistence on a walk (apart from when raining), her delight at her daily chew, her total refusal to ever get her feet wet, her greeting at the garden gate. RIP Bobbie. Top dog and friend. 

And the biggest change of all is the arrival of number one child, great with child as they say in Biblical circles, and her lovely husband. They have made a home in our barn conversion and are now nesting like mad prior to the arrival of the most important baby in my world since the twins arrived 22 years ago. Number one looks absolutely blooming and this baby will bring so much joy to us all. Happy change! 

"I had this perfect dream..."

"I had this perfect dream..." as it goes in Freddie Mercury's Barcelona and indeed, when I am huddled by the fire in January after two daily dog walks have left me damp and dispirited, my dream is usually not some white sandy beach, turquoise sea and clear blue skies - though I'm not saying that it wouldn't be nice - but a cafe or bar with street-side seating in the warm spring sunshine sipping a cappuccino or even better a glass of something pink and alcoholic in Barcelona.

I know bucket lists are supposed to be full of exotic, undiscovered and distant destinations but my bucket list, which is, like so many things in my life, a work in progress, has an eclectic mix of old and new destinations and the ones that I love, where I have been really happy, are always included for another a visit. I think we've been to Barcelona five times now and each visit shows us another side to this bustling, stylish Catalan city. And this time was no exception. Brilliantly, and by a serendipitous fluke, the Barcelona ATP Tennis Tournament falls fairly and squarely on our wedding anniversary so no surprise that this event is a massive favourite of ours.

But first, easy to get to from Leeds Bradford and an obliging taxi ride from the airport, we opted for an Airbnb centrally located for the four of us because on this trip we were joined by our tennis buds, Nigel and Sarah Mou - a smidgeon of Greek there! Great location near to one of our two favourite tapas bars but four floors up with the sort of lift that would not have been out of place in Thoroughly Modern Millie!
https://www.dailymotion.com/video/x54ddfj. Anyway perfect for us and very well fitted out though my beloved would have liked a bigger bed and there was a fair amount of clinging to the edge of the precipice on either side in the middle of the night!

Our two favourite tapas bars are Cerveceria Catalana on Carrer de Mallorca, literally a spit and a bit from our Airbnb - a buzzy mix of suits and tourists and whether you're sitting outside or standing six deep at the bar pointing at the amazing array of tapas, it's all good. And our other favourite is Irati which is an altogether smaller affair, snugly squeezed between tourist shops on a narrow street not far off Las Ramblas. Here you help yourself to cold tapas from the bar and then prepare for the diving hands when the hot tapas emerge from the kitchen at the back - these are the best! Each tapas has a cocktail stick and the bar staff tot up the sticks when you pay the bill. As ever, fab food and a bottle of rather nice red came to 62 euros for the four of us. Can't be beaten...

The tennis in Barcelona is my favourite of the smaller tournaments we've been to. Each has its own character but there is something friendly and welcoming about the Barcelona tournament. We were booked into men's quarter finals so four matches of the best of three sets including a masterclass from Rafa. And when in Barcelona, he gets the kind of welcome from the crowd that Sachin Tendulkar gets from a home crowd in India. Three top 10 players in action and the weather was perfect. Two minutes from the court to a glass of cool beer - it can't be bettered.

No trip to Barcelona is complete without a visit to La Sagrada Familia - the stunning, and constantly evolving Gaudi cathedral. This is my favourite of all modern buildings. I don't have the words to describe the light inside from the many, many stained glass windows or the incredible ceiling which sparkles and glistens above our heads with each carving and image around us perfectly symbolic. That it is still being constructed to Gaudi's specific plan nearly 100 years after his death is surely the greatest mark of respect of the people. And each time we visit, it shows a new treasure. Find somewhere away from the crowds to sit and contemplate. You won't be disappointed. Top tip: book before you go as the queues can be massive.

There were lots of other joyous bits of our long weekend including two very reasonable pairs of shoes for moi and some delicious meals including Tomate/Fan Ho and a lovely if very windy walk down to the Marina. Also new to us was the magnificent Fonta Magica of Montjuic where the fountains nearly match those of the Bellagio in Las Vegas and play to Barcelona by the much-missed Freddie Mercury and Monserrat Caballe. And not forgetting my must-have Cosmopolitan at a rooftop bar - yeah! All that was missing was one more day. We'll be back next April - love it!
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q0wdxj8-mAU

Thirty Years and counting...

You might think, though you'd be incorrect, that when I write my blog, my thoughts just tumble on to the page (well, laptop really) in the same conversational style as if you and I were just having a chat. Actually, the truth is very different and often the gestation period for a blog runs over many dog walks over a number of weeks. Until at some point, like the midwife saying, "You can push now!" I just have to either write it or forget it.

Anyway, two such blogs have been rattling around in the semi-occupied space up top and chronologically this one has to come first - for reasons that will become apparent later.

A little more than thirty years ago, my beloved took his very large wife (great with child - yes, still me!) down a lane, along a bumpy track and over a rattly cattle grid to a small gamekeeper's cottage surrounded by fields, with a garden the size of a postage stamp and numerous very run-down outbuildings including a straw barn occupied by a major rodent population. More honest estate agent's blurb might have read: no heating and a kitchen circa 1960 which should be demolished with immediate effect. I expect it actually read something like: A unique opportunity to buy a period home in need of some restoration with stunning views across open countryside, blah, blah blah. One day I'll find the particulars but in the meantime, I can tell you that my version is a whole lot more accurate.

Also it isn't true to say that we were 'viewing' the property because my beloved had already shaken hands on the deal and if I had imagined that our forever home (for this is what it was always to be) would be in a pretty village with a proper kitchen, heating and somewhere for the children to play in a safe environment, that ship had already sailed. But I knew that this was indeed my beloved's forever home as it was part of the estate where he had lived as a boy (in the posh house, of course) and he had poached extensively here throughout his youth. And this has been our forever home, a life sentence of the best possible kind - probably a lot longer than any custodial sentence dished out in court.

So already purchased by the time I even saw it for the first time, thirty years ago this month we moved in - that is to say, I moved in with the help of a friend at bang on nine months pregnant with number 2, my beloved arriving at about 4.00pm having been held up at work. Hmmmm.... Anyway all that 'Mr Shifta' stuff failed to dislodge number 2 who wisely chose to stay where she was until the central heating was working properly a couple of weeks later.

Various outbuildings were demolished, straw bales removed and the rodent population took over the garden until one day when I had laid number 2 baby on a rug by the front door in the sunshine only to see a very large rat (my imagination says terrier-sized but I may be exaggerating) approaching. The rodent population was well and truly obliterated with immediate effect thereafter!

We had such grand plans back then but never the capital to do more than a relatively small amount of work at a time and friends (who thought we were mad to move here in the first place) always referred to the house as a work in progress which even now thirty years on would be a correct description. We've built and converted, dug every square inch of garden, fenced and cattle-gridded, planted all the trees apart from the two cypresses which is all that remains of what was there when we arrived. It took eight years to get rid of the dreaded green formica kitchen and I still think of my twenty year old kitchen as 'the new kitchen' even though it is now overdue for replacement.

But this is home in every sense of the word. Three of our children never lived anywhere else until they left school and number 1 won't even remember our previous house (with a proper garden and very nice kitchen!). It's a special place to all of us and even though we haven't done half of what we'd hoped, it is, without doubt, on a sunny day like today the best place on the planet. Though I may of course be a bit biased but this is my blog and I'm allowed!

"We are not amused"... It's Snow Time!

When people come to our home for the first time, they often ask how we manage when we are snowed in. In the early years of living in splendid isolation at the little house on the prairie, heavy snow was an almost annual event but we managed pretty well for a number of reasons. Firstly, we had great neighbours who would bring a tractor down the mile of lane between our cattle grid and the crossroads on the outskirts of the village (not that we don't have great neighbours now - of which, more later...). We also had some very good sledging locations which our children and their friends were well aware of and so parents of the friends would skid and slide their way down to ours in 4x4s packed with kids and sledges for some proper fun. And, most significantly, my beloved would be around to join in, ferry anyone who needed ferrying in his own 4x4 and keep us in fresh veg etc until the roads were cleared.

Then came what I shall describe as the 'Las Vegas Winters'. When our four offspring ranged from 18 down to 8, my beloved started attending the Consumer Electronics Show which took place in Las Vegas in January. Of course, it was necessary for him to get himself down to London to fly out to Vegas and regardless of whether any white stuff lay on the ground or was forecast, he was going and the chosen vehicle was the aforementioned 4x4. He would disappear in early January to somewhere warm and carefree whilst I was in charge of domestic affairs. And without fail, the snow, if it hadn't already, would come down in ... well... alpine proportions.

First task would be to get all children to school, assuming it hadn't been deemed a 'snow day'. Pause here for great celebrations and giddiness if this was the case. Otherwise we achieved our departure by getting my wonderful neighbour to help me get the remaining non-4x4 vehicle up the drive, into the village and parked in the pub car park just about a mile away. Then, each morning, once schools were re-opened, we would en masse trudge up the lane in our wellies so that I could transport them from the pub car park into school before parking in the pub car park and trudging back the mile back down the lane. Then I would do the same in reverse at the end of the day, with food shopping being carried back. I learnt early on that bags of potatoes, tins and dog food were not life's essentials when you've a mile-long march through the snow. I also gained a reputation as a prodigious drinker as my car was always at the pub!

Each year, having moaned a bucketload during our brief conversations between Las Vegas and Yorkshire about the depth of the snow, impracticality of not having a 4x4 etc, as soon as the due date for his return actually arrived, the snow would miraculously disappear and he would arrive back saying: "How can you make such a fuss? There's hardly any snow!"

The last of these memorable Las Vegas Winters was back in 2009 and since then, when folks have asked about being snowed in, we've just told them that with global warming it doesn't seem to happen any more. What fools we were!

So bringing things back to the present day, my beloved now works 2 hours away and only comes home at weekends. He drives to work on a Monday in the only available 4x4 leaving me latterly with my super-doopah John Cooper Works Mini. When the Beast from the East was forecast a couple weeks ago, I suggested that perhaps he might take the Mini and leave me with the Defender. That went down like, well, a lead balloon and off he went on Monday morning in the Land Rover that he loves more than life itself - well, nearly, anyway. Come Wednesday we are under snow and although I can get up the lane on Wednesday, by Thursday morning, nobody is going anywhere.

"Come home!" I say to my beloved but he is resisting big style. "How many at work today?" "Two," he replies and I know that the other bloke lives on site! Anyway, eventually he agrees to return on Thursday afternoon so he can spend the next three days complaining that I am making a fuss about nothing.

Fast forward to Sunday and, almost in the words of Elton John's hit single, "The Beast is Back" or on its way at least. "So can I borrow the Defender this week and you take the Mini?" As ever, it was not well received so come Thursday when the Beast dumped 4 inches of snow on us in literally 3 hours flat, once again, I was snowed in! Of course, it was all gone by lunchtime but I was, in the words of Queen Victoria, in the manner of Dame Judi Dench rather than Jenna Coleman, not amused.

As I write this, rumour has it that the Beast might be back again next week... when I will definitely not be amused - again!

Footnote: Being a very keen cinema-goer, I have, in fact, seen nearly all the films nominated and awards in this year's Oscars so I was unsurprisingly disappointed to see that my film of the year, Film Stars Don't Die in Liverpool didn't even get a look-in. Do catch it if you can. http://www.imdb.com/title/tt5711148/

And Sir Elt's version of "The Bitch/Beast is Back!" - enjoy!  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Rig3tgyYiAM