Eking out the Birthday

A friend of mine, Skip, was 50 in December 2102 and managed, by masterful planning and execution to eke his birthday celebrations out until October 2013. Impressive huh? Well I had a birthday last week - no noughts at the end so just a modest one - but I did manage to make the various celebrations last from Tuesday till Saturday and it was a surprising and eventful week.

When I woke on my actual birthday, it was with a rather leaden heart. Would this be the last of my birthdays when I would see at least two of my children at breakfast? As it turned out, by the time I made it downstairs in my dressing gown, there were three of the four present and the conservatory was filled with banners and balloons and not a small number of presents and cards. Number two who is usually on her way to work by the time there's much activity going on at the little house on the prairie had stopped in to wish me happy birthday and it was all the lovelier for her thoughtful presence - or presents, come to that. Number 1 skyped me in the morning and although not quite as lovely as a squidgy hug, it was delightful. Meanwhile my beloved had to go to a funeral in the morning and so we didn't meet up till lunchtime when a very excellent lunch was consumed at La Feria before the main event in the evening.

Now I might not have chosen to listen to a Q&A event at Ripon Grammar School on my birthday but as it turned out, the guest speaker, Sir Ian Botham no less, had been caught slightly on the hop with the sacking of Kevin Pietersen only a couple of hours earlier so it made for an interesting evening with one or two questions that he definitely found trickier than he would have expected when he accepted the gig. Both number 3 and I met the great man which was brilliant.

So on to Wednesday when I could reasonably expect the post-birthday let-down to begin but instead I went out to lunch with my girlfriends. Some of these girls have been my friends for well over thirty years and as I grow older (a lot older as it turns out) I realise that these women have been an absolutely essential part of my life and are definitely to be treasured beyond rubies. One of the most important things I try to teach my bevy of daughters is that your girlfriends are your greatest support in troubled times and your greatest cheerleaders in good times.

In the midst of all this birthdaying, we have had a builders in the house. They are not there to do exciting home improvements and extensions. No, they are replacing the ceiling in the downstairs loo (and hall) which fell in on my beloved in November. They were very charming about all the birthdaying going on, though things will get much worse this week when they re-plaster the wall in my office and the haze of dust is redoubled throughout the house. Oh joy!

And now on to the really big treat of the week. I usually read the article in Saturday's Telegraph about famous people's favourite things. I have yet to spot anyone owning up to international rugby, guinness and men in kilts but the combination of the three is a heady mix indeed. When I suggested that we should get up at 6.00am on Saturday morning to drive to Edinburgh, even though kick-off at Murrayfield was not until 5.00pm, I expected resistance from my beloved. Actually he took it calmly on the chin because this is my birthday and I am allowed, if only for a few days, to call the shots. 7.15 am and we are already making our way up north, calling in at Jedburgh for a gigantic fry-up. "Are you taking a picture of my breakfast?" he said. Yes, your children need to know what you are eating.

By late morning we are parked up near the ground and hopping on a bus to the City Centre. We met a delightful elderly couple - "he's 92!" she said - and it made my heart dance a jig to hear their views on the Scottish referendum. "Of course not," the elderly lady said when we asked if she would be voting for separation. Into the centre of one of our most favourite cities and a little light window shopping had to be done before heading into a bar that we've frequented before on Murrayfield days. The first of several guinnesses for me and I am in excellent spirits for the match.

The atmosphere at Murrayfield is always special. Despite sensing a certain inevitable doom about the Scottish supporters, the craic was definitely on and men in kilts were everywhere. One even streaked on the pitch during the match (not sure you can streak wearing a kilt but I suspect that was all he had on - that and boots - don't quote me though). The sound of the pipes and drums resounding round the ground is electric and a win for England rounded off a great day.

We didn't get back till midnight and stopped off for what must rank as one of the worst meals ever purchased for me by my gastronome beloved - McDonalds at Kingston Park, Newcastle at 10.30pm. But food was required, and coffee and if that's the only minute blot on the birthday landscape then I can live with that.

Me and Sir Ian

My first one - honest!

 Magnificent!

One of Dylan Hartley's perfect twenty line-outs

Olympic Bobsleigh Love Match

One of the small pleasures that gets me through the week at this miserable time of year is David Parkin's column in the Friday edition of thebusinessdesk.com. Always a sideways view of business life and usually with an anecdote or two along the way. This week's column made me smile because it brought back a special memory. David has just been down the Olympic bobsleigh track at Innsbruck - something which I have also done ... in January 1982.

People sometimes ask how my beloved and I first met and it was indeed on our one and only skiing holiday. Why never again? (The children ask this a lot because they feel they are in some way deprived when their chums go off to the slopes and we steadfastly refuse to go.) Because that holiday changed our lives and, call us superstitious, but we don't want to make that kind of change again.

In January 1982, as Human League's Don't You Want Me Baby was number 1 in the charts, we (my then other half and I) set off by Wallace Arnold coach from Elland Road, Leeds to the Austrian ski slopes with two other couples whom we barely knew. One of the four was my beloved, though he wasn't that then. And one thing I knew by the end of the holiday was that I would never meet anyone as kind and lovely as himself ever again.

But that's skipping ahead. Amongst all the crashing about with planks on our feet and late night drinking (and I'm not going into any more detail than that) there was a trip to the Olympic bobsleigh track at Innsbruck. Crammed into a bobsleigh with a professional brakeman at the back (think Cool Runnings without the egg) we set off at high speed in something which felt literally as fragile as eggshell and went like the proverbial clappers whilst we sat with our legs gripped around the person in front in absolute terror. It was brilliant but, like our skiing holiday, never to be repeated.

Back in Blighty, we, my beloved and I, did eventually get together and four children later and a whole rollercoaster ride of ups and downs, we are still together and will be celebrating our Pearl (30th) wedding anniversary in a couple of months. Yah boo sucks to all those people who said it wouldn't last.

So thanks to David Parkin for bringing back all those memories and although the weather isn't being kind I shall be basking in the memory of the terror of hurtling down the ice track, holding on tight to the rather less-stout-than-today man of my dreams.

You see... still gorgeous! 

Russian Roulette ... or blasting my way into 2014!

This morning was the first day of the New Year. My waking thoughts were twofold - I didn't feel too bad, or at least as bad as I probably deserved to feel, and how nice it was to have my own hair.

After what had turned out to be a difficult and, at times, very sad Christmas, and certainly one that will live long in the memory for the wrong reasons, I had been feeling uncharacteristically bah humbug about New Year's Eve. New Year's Eve amongst our lovely friends is always a special, joyful and eventful occasion; one to be planned-for and anticipated during the run-up to Christmas and in the brief respite thereafter before the year ends. And yet this year I had given the big night scarcely a thought.

Back at the end of October, we had received an invitation in Russian, with even our names translated into Cyrillic script and, after a bit of head scratching, we worked out that we had been invited for a New Year's Eve Russian-themed party at the home of our dear friends and neighbours, Il Supremo of the Cricket Club and his fabulous Mrs. Of course, all the gang would be attending and some were even smart enough to respond in Cyrillic script too, though not us. Russian fancy dress was discussed in vague terms and put on the mental back burner whilst Christmas preparations took centre stage.

Then a couple of weeks before Christmas my beloved's stepfather's health began to deteriorate rapidly and less important tasks and projects (deciding upon and purchasing fancy dress amongst them) were shelved and only the essential items at the top of the list were achieved whilst we played supportive roles for the family. The intrepid granny arrived, preceded by number 1 child and her partner and room at the inn was made for my brother in law who flew back from the Alps to see his father.

On the stroke of midnight on Christmas Eve, John sadly left us and Christmas and the days thereafter took on different priorities and our usual festive mood barely made an appearance. No further thoughts of dressing up occurred until the eve of the Eve when the intrepid granny was loaded on to a train at York and some rapid and not very creative (on my part) purchases were made for an event that I was still feeling rather bah humbug about.

Meanwhile two other things happened - we asked, and our hosts generously agreed, that we could bring my lovely brother-in-law along for a much needed change of mood. The other thing was a request from our hosts that we be prepared to perform a little party piece. Cue more bah humbuggery from me but at least we were going and now we had decided to give it a real blast.

You may know by now that I am married to the king of fancy dress and any such event is always preceded by a host of enquiries as to whether my beloved will 'black up'. Well, this year he decided to 'gold up' instead, choosing a black Russian Sobranie cigarette as this year's creation. Me - well, I considered being a member of the corps de ballet of the Bolshoi but a tutu was not looking an attractive option when we actually got to the fancy dress shop so I opted (or copped out somewhat) for a blond wig and wearing my tennis kit - 'Hello Maria Sharapova!' Then my brother-in-law on 24 hours' notice managed to cossack-up wearing granny's black fur hat (which I found rather disturbing) and off we went.

The home of our now Russian peasant chums had been transformed into the night sky over Moscow with the film of Anna Karenina running on the big screen in the background and a couple of Black Russian cocktails later with a load of cossack chums, James Bond (From Russia with Love) and Roman Abramovich we are feeling, as they say, no pain. I have just checked what's in a Black Russian and I am not surprised. But sensible drinking was about to kick in - or so I thought - and rather than drinking red wine, my usual choice, I moved on to Russian beer. Can't be much alcohol in that, I thought, drinking it like squash and dancing round the room, bottle in hand.

We failed, I'm afraid, on the party piece but others performed brilliantly with Boney C performing Ra Ra Rasputin, an eloquent poem from my dear chum (whilst she still had the power of speech) and a scene from From Russia with Love. All in the best possible taste, of course. Feasting, dancing and drinking till after three with some of our most favourite people and the first time over Christmas that we had felt properly (if alcohol-induced) festive.

Walking home proved a rather longer challenge than expected, having left one car at the end of our lane earlier (not a public highway and therefore safe to drive with only ourselves living at the end) and the other at our hosts. We walked back to the car (about a twenty minute walk) and then realised that we couldn't find the keys which subsequently turned out to be at our Russian peasant hosts' house. So we eventually arrived home, cooked and ate bacon sandwiches in bed (crumby as I discovered the following morning) and slept the sleep of the virtuous (ha!).

So welcome to 2014 which will hopefully be better for us than 2013 turned out to be and best wishes to you all for a happy and healthy year ahead. I will be treating January with sobriety and respect but, hey, it's my birthday at the beginning of February!

Maria Sharapova and the Black Russian Sobranie. The hair and the visor nearly drove me mad on New Year's Eve but I kept them on, refusing to morph into Martina Navratilova (not prepared to change sexual orientation at this time in my life) and as the alcohol flowed, apparently I even managed to look like Anna Kornikova through others' alcohol-tinted specs - result! The Black Sobranie was wearing a tube-like skirt which meant that he couldn't get into the front of the Land Rover and had to lie down in the back! Happy New Year, everyone!

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.