Caught naked in the shower.

Monday 24^th November

Today continues much as last week did. The usual routine before breakfast, then a drive into Uni where I head off in one direction and Laura goes in another. Sarah at the pool is still excited about the quiz on Thursday – I think she needs to get out more. I recounted the tale of Annie Oakley Laura and her shotgun prowess over the weekend; this was another surprising thing about us in Sarah’s eyes. I thought she’d understood what I meant when I said I was going picking up, some Saturdays after our swim. It turns out she had no idea at all. She loved the sound of The Snowman at the Lyceum. It was an amazing show and ideal for getting kids into theatre going. The more they actually experience real people performing for them before their very eyes instead of receiving sanitised and sterile pap through a screen the better our country would be. Sadly it will never happen because the western world has become a society of lazy, slobby, lowest common denominator gits! If that is you, then be offended, because offence was my intent. Good old Peter Handke, say I. (I bet less than 1% of any readers will understand that illusion.)

We moved Olivia’s class to tonight instead of tomorrow (she couldn’t do Wednesday which was the other alternative) and she arrived just before Trevor. We tossed a coin for the use of the study and I lost, so we worked in the kitchen once again. This time though we weren’t subjected to tales of our own childhoods wafting through from the front room. In fact Olivia’s Mum left her and went off leaving her by herself. Perhaps we have passed some sort of test? I am pleased with the way she is getting much more confident with her work and her ability. She was helped by getting a B+ for her stupidly titled Macbeth essay. The teacher’s comments illustrated, to me, that the idiotic teacher had no idea how stupid a title it was. She certainly offered no different suggestions as to how to handle it from the way that Olivia had done.

She is now worried about her creative writing task saying she can never think up exciting stories. I told her that the teacher / examiner isn’t looking for excitement, they are looking for a well told tale written with proper use of English which will engage the reader. It doesn’t have to be like a published author’s work. In fact of it looked like that they would probably suspect you’d copied it as pupils shouldn’t be able to write that well. (As a one off that is… a good teacher will have noted their pupils writing style over the years and should be able to tell if it is: a) the pupil’s own work and b) a logical progression of what they have previously done if it seems much better than before.

I explained how I wrote a brilliant essay (A*) all about how I had been spotted taking a shower by a group of cub scout who were staying in the same youth hostel we were. It didn’t happen to me at all. I happened to my Dad when he was a student and the cub scouts had been girl guides. He had told us this tale a few times so it was already in my head, all I had to do was alter the genders and my age.

What happened was this: Dad and a girlfriend had gone on a cycling holiday from Oxford (where they were both students) around the Cotswolds. On a rather narrow bit of the road Dad had chosen to drive into a road side ditch rather than by wiped out by a French lorry which seemed to have forgotten which side of the road he should be driving on. He was drenched and muddy and cold, but alive. Luckily the bike was OK so they staggered on to their Youth Hostel destination where they met with the warden, by accident who saw the state Dad was in and kindly agreed to let him use the shower block to clean up. His wife was cleaning the old block so the warden let him use the new one. This was a room with a series of cubicles around it but each cubicle was currently lacking a shower curtain. The warden’s task that afternoon was to hang the new curtains.

Dad happily went into the shower room but forgot to lock the outer door (this is crucial). He was blithely showering away and soaping his important little place when he heard a noise at the door and the wardens wife burst through followed by a gaggle of girl guides, she said, “And this is the new block which will be ready by tonight…. Oh!”  

Dad attempted to cover his modesty and the warden’s wife ushered the girls out as quickly as she could but several were reluctant to leave, probably hoping to cop an eyeful of Dad’s… you get the picture?

Anyway, Dad, Dad’s GF, the Warden and his wife had a good old laugh about this and all concluded it was unfortunate but no harm done. Dad discovered there was harm later that evening when lots of the girl guides, who were also staying at the hostel, would see him, point at him and giggle. As they were no longer in their uniform but in civvies he found that this kept happening regularly throughout the evening until bed time. He found it the most excruciatingly embarrassing ordeal of his short life to that date. (He has had more embarrassing incidents but he has refused to divulge them, to me at least.)

I was able to show how, with careful tweaking and writing it in the past tense, feeling acutely embarrassed by what had happened, I was able to turn Dad’s tale about him into a convincing tale about me. It fooled my English teacher in to believing it really happened (which it did in a way, of course). Plus I got an A* for it.

She thought for a while and then brightened up as she remembered something her Mum had told her about when she was at school. She and I discussed it and she could see how it would be an interesting tale. It wasn’t exciting or thrilling, but it would be compelling and based in truth (even if it was someone else’s truth). She left feeling much happier and with a fairly detailed plan sketched out already. I asked her to send me a copy of the finished piece by e-mail and I would look through it for technical errors. She has to hand it in a week today. She promised she would and I am sure she will.

Trevor and she left at about the same time and Loll leant against me as he left. He does her head in, apparently. He says he doesn’t get it and then goes ahead with exercise and gets everything right. She says she is going to slap him! I told her next time to mark everything her does wrong and see what happens. She thinks that is a brilliant idea!

Tuesday November 25^th

I jokingly said, “Is The New Zealand String Quartet the only one there is in New Zealand then?” A soft voice behind us piped up with a wealth of knowledge and details about string quartets in NZ. I wished I had kept my mouth shut. Mrs Briggs actually sniggered. I asked her what was so funny? She said I had been hoist by my own petard. I can see what she means. I am guilty as charged. I go off into long and detailed explanations or descriptions (or even opinions) at the drop of a hat. Oh, who am I to pull a face when some undergraduate music student behind us in the Firth Hall decides to educate and inform me.

I knew I shouldn’t have but I asked the zealous young lady, “If it is a string quartet, why are there five chairs?”

Mistake. I was given the lowdown on Peter Cropper and why he was there and what he would be playing and how Kartsigar was a work based on Greek folk music and and and…..

Kartsigar was based on folk tunes but it seemed to me to lack a formal structure around the melodies, catchy as some of them were. I suppose it was only the first movement and would have perhaps found a resolution in later ones. That was my internal dialogue, I decided against voicing other comments in case I was given more insight into tonight’s proceedings.

At the interval, the buzzing in my ears manifested herself (should that be womanifested then?) at our side and it said she had seen Laura and I around the uni during last year and even at a couple of things in here before. What did our mother think to the performance so far? I wasn’t sure what to expect from Mrs B. She can be icy to the point of flash freezing or extremely amused. She was obviously amused as she told our buzzing little undergrad that spec savers were doing a two for one deal at the moment. “Do I look old enough to be HER mother?” pointing at me! (Well, thanks a bunch I was thinking.) Our little buzzing student was unflappable. She said she didn’t know; people were having children at younger and younger ages. She was totally ingenuous and totally without guile. I suppose that is what stopped her from getting a blast of the arctic directed her way.

Lily is a music student she plays the clarinet. She had seen the NZ SQ play the Brahams Clarinet Quintet and was blown away and just had to see them again even through there was no clarinet music in tonight’s concert.

I had to confess I hadn’t heard it but I had heard the Brahms quintet we would hear in the second half and I thought it was divine. I must admit that I didn’t realise it was only a string quintet when I heard it on the radio and was surprised when the continuity person announced it as such. I told Lily this and she launched into a paen for BBC Radio 3 compared to Classic FM. I could tell this must be an argument she has a lot with her fellow students. I tried to deflect it by talking about how I often discovered things when listening to Essential Classics (9am to 12am) which I have never heard before. I mentioned the Hershel 8^th Symphony and, guess what? She’d heard that too and had done what I did, went out and bought a copy. (Amazon for both of us.)

By the time we’d finished talking and headed back to our seats I was beginning to think there might be more than just irritating buzzing to Lily after all. Laura’s whispered comment was funny though, “She can’t half talk, can’t she?”

After the concert the three of us wandered off to the bar we use along Broomhill for a swift libation and a chat about the playing without Lily’s presence. As we left, she came and said goodbye and pressed a post it in my hand with her e-mail, twitter and facebook details. I may e-mail her sometime. Maybe. That way I will not have to buy ear protectors and body armour!

I forgot to mention Lily was actually with a guy. He was rather skinny and awkward looking (if you know what I mean?) and I am sorry to say that he looked a bit hen-pecked and timid. I am not surprised really.

Mrs Briggs and my actual, real, mother are out with us to our next cultural event; The Northern Ballet’s ‘Cinderella’ at the Lyceum again on Friday night. We also had more pupil juggling with Sally and Jenny-Leigh coming tomorrow night instead of Thursday for their lessons Although this is because both teams of Scampi Tails are descending on my local pub for its monthly quiz night, which this month is its Christmas Special. Sally and Bobbi have agreed to double up for once, which is good.

The Halle did ‘Scenes from Cinderella’ as part of the opening concert in the International Classics season way back in September. The production does not use the Prokofiev, though, as the theatre brochure says it is with a ‘new score’ by Philip Feeny. Let’s hope it isn’t a disappointment. I am really looking forward to it, regardless of which score is used.

Wednesday November 26^th

At XXX & Y this afternoon the other ‘girl’ in Archives were amused by the fact that Mrs Briggs had been thought to be my mother. She had been regaling with the tales of our meeting with strident Lily and her wallflower boyfriend. They thought it was a hoot.

The same reaction was had by Felice, this morning at Uni when I told her too. She did say that Mrs B. acted like a mother towards me though, so it is hardly a surprise. I am amazed at her observational skills having only met with Mrs B. on a handful of occasions. Maybe she is more perceptive than I have given her credit for.

I met with the last of my tutees this morning, so that is the pastoral part of my work done until next semester unless any of the little darlings has a crisis between now and then. It has been known. This year I have had no limpets like the redoubtable Ms Scothern, I seem to have had my fair share of ‘so laid back they’re horizontal’ guys though, which is probably worse. It is like trying to motivate concrete. One of them asked me what would happen if he didn’t attend any more sessions and I answered honestly that I didn’t know, but I am sure it would amount to nothing much. So he told me he wouldn’t be seeing me again, in that case. Charming!

Our evening class pupils were on time and raring to go. Jenny-Leigh and I continued where we left off with the poetry. She is beginning to see the logic behind my methods of poetic analysis. She was impressed with the Marvell we did today, after being daunted by it at first, she eventually said, “OMG, were they all obsessed with bonking?” (Bonking was my word, she used an F instead). I told her that they were simply reflecting the nature of the male in our society since time immemorial. Men have three basic desires, Eat, Bonk, Sleep. With bonk appearing three times in that list, at the front and at the end as well!

J-L said I was a cynic because of me and Laura being a couple. I explained that I had thought this long before I had been introduced to the joys of Sapphic love.

Down in the kitchen, the experiment with Bobbi and Sally together was a success. They go to different secondary schools and they compared the different methods of teaching at each establishment and decided that no matter what they were doing in class at either place, Laura’s tuition made it all a lot clearer than their respective teachers. She was a very happy bunny when they had gone.

We spent the rest of the evening chilling out on the sofa. So much so that Laura woke me at ten to midnight with the immortal words, “Wake up. It’s time to go to bed.” We had a giggle at that and on Callie’s last walk of the day we attempted to make up some more absurd sounding phrases. Laura remembered one from the top of an e-mail which said “If you can’t read this e-mail, click here!” That was the best of the bunch.

Thursday 27^th November.

Sarah joined Scampi Tails Two this evening and would you believe it, they won! We were beaten for the first time in ages by our second stringers. What let us down was a round on Television Soap Operas. I mean what a bloody subject for a general knowledge quiz. (Am I being an intellectual snob? Probably, to be honest.)

Out of a possible 20 points in that round we scored 2! Two. They asked questions about which we had no clue at all. Even if our lives had depended on it we’d have been unable to give the right answer. It was an education for us, in a way, as I suppose it made us feel how the other teams must feel when they haven’t an inkling of the right answer and we sit there all smug and self-righteous because we know it. It was humbling and probably very good for us too! Eva was really amused. (The Landlady) I can’t say I blame her. We have been a thorn in the other contestants’ sides for a year or more now!

Earlier in the day we had searched through the notes we’d been making on our translations and work on the documents in general only to discover that a whole section of them weren’t there! OK, it is work on only a half a dozen documents at most but out logs and records show we have at least thirty pieces of paper relating to the documents but none of them are in the relevant box-file.

We spent the morning turning my office and Felice’s inside out. This is not difficult, in the case of my room, because it is like a reverse Tardis, bigger on the outside than it is on the inside. Owing to this restricted space (and possibly because of my OCD) I am excessively tidy about everything and it took less than 15 minutes to make absolutely, 100% sure that the wayward papers were not in my office.

Decamping to the Gallic Gorgeousness’ office was more of a challenge. She has a more cavalier attitude to life in general and filing in particular. She has to be one of the most disorganised people I know. However, even after an hour and a half’s searching, rootling and ferreting through the assorted detritus in her office we know the elusive papers are not there either.

After a cuppa and a bun, always conducive to creative thought, I find, we drew up an action plan. These are very good for making it look like you are doing something serious and grown up when in fact you are merely pissing in the wind! To be fair our action plan listed places to look, people to visit, and what to do if it the bloody things remained undiscovered. It would have been catastrophic if we had lost some of the documents themselves but papers can be rewritten.

The idea of a catastrophic loss seemed to hit us at about the same time, so we spent the last hour before lunch checking that everything on the inventory for the casket was actually in the casket. This was all ship shape and Bristol Fashion. (Never use idiomatic, eponymous expressions to French people. They ask for an explanation and that can take ages and ages. Especially when they know, for some weird reason, that Bristols is also slang for tits! We could have written a comedy sketch around my explanation and Felice’s reaction.)

A post script to the day. Arriving home after the quiz defeat I found a text on my phone. They (mobile phones) are banned from the quiz, as people have been caught cheating with them. So anyone with a phone out during the questioning gets points deducted. I left mine at home. Anyway, it was from Felice who had searched her entire flat and no sign of the papers were there either. That means a search of Yours Truly’s will be on the cards for the weekend.

Walking in the Air

Friday November 21^st

On the way back from swimming this morning we were accosted by Steve who had some very important news. The Clay Pigeon event will start at 9am tomorrow and entry will be £10 not a fiver! Were we still interested? A brief consultation, consisting of a tilt of my head and a nod of Laura’s, meant ‘Yes, we were.’ Steve told us where the location was and where to park. The plan was to use four traps and set off as soon as possible. It seems some of the chaps wanted to go to football matches in the afternoon! How pathetic is that?

Time whizzed by this morning and it seemed it was lunchtime almost as soon as we’d started. We have had a great success with one of the palimpsests which does seem to be a letter on top of an inventory. It is pretty ordinary stuff in the letter, domestic arrangements and the like. Part of it is requesting some new cooking pots be made, as two of the writer’s pots were broken in the same week. Little touches of humanity like that are charming.

Felice wanted to know how cooking pots could get broken but I was able to tell her almost everything to do with cooking was made from pottery in those days. They we quick to make (relatively), from a convenient source of clay and efficient at their task. Metal pots weren’t used by common folk until much later in history. I keep forgetting she is a language scholar, not a historian!

We all lunched in the refec and then departed back to our respective faculties. I was still seeing my second years personal students, and some had requested a Friday afternoon slot. Friday afternoon? What is wrong with today’s student, don’t they realise Friday afternoon is the all hallowed skiving off home to mummy time of the week? It turned out the three I was meeting had things planned in the city over the weekend and wanted the time filled up in some useful way. (Nice to be considered a useful time waster on a Friday afternoon!)

Laura drove us home in her little car and we spent an age in a traffic jam on Langsett Road after an accident further along. Our salmon meal was waiting for us on arrival, fully cooked and needing its veggies sorting. This was because of the delay. It is amazing how quickly you can prep and cook vegetables when in a hurry. Laura chopped and I stir fried them to make it speedier. Not what we had planned but a very interesting taste combination. I think we may do this again instead of relying on our trusty old steamer!

Owing to the early start tomorrow, I took Loll on the back garden after tea and we went through several points of safe gun use. She was surprised at how light my Beretta is although after half an hour of waving it around and loading and unload and firing on snap-caps, she began to change her opinion slightly. I am a bit wary about letting her have a go in the morning without having actually fired off the gun at all.  We are going to go into the back field after Callie’s walk tomorrow and fire off half a dozen cartridges so she gets a feel for how it behaves in action. To that end, after we’d finished I knocked on all the neighbours’ door to let them know what the banging would be at about 7.30 in the morning.

 Saturday November 22^nd.

This has proved to be a very busy, but fulfilling day. {And DRY!}

I dog walked and we swam as usual. Then after brekkers we trooped into the back field and I gave Laura a second lesson in shotgun etiquette and hands on experience of firing the thing for real. My cartridges aren’t using a powerful mix and the recoil is fairly slight. She was surprised the first time though as she hadn’t quite got the stock firmly into her shoulder. The next four shots she had sussed out that little tip. I got her to aim at outlying branches on the hawthorn bush and she managed to hit them fairly well. We then tired a couple of goes at her trying to hit an old ball of Callie’s which she’s sort of shredded. I threw it in the air and she fired at it. The first time my throw was pretty useless and we just laughed at my ineptitude. The second time, despite her saying she was ready she completely missed me throwing it!

The third time I was able to send the ball into a fairly high arc but she shot too soon and underneath it. The fourth go was perfect all round, my throw was pretty good, she actually hit the ball. You could tell by the way it deviated in its arc and Callie enjoyed fetching her old ball back too. I did have to point out that jumping up and down yelling, “I hit it. I hit it!” Would not be a good idea at the shoot proper.

The shoot proper.

First the important bit: it stopped raining. Even so we both had on our stockmen’s coats and Aigles so we were pretty well covered up if it decided to start again. Luckily it didn’t until Sunday.

We were given a number each on payment of our £10 and told which trap that referred to. I was seven; Loll was eight. This meant we were on trap four. They were being allocated in order of arrival and being used almost immediately. It seemed that this would mean we were through pretty quickly and could either hang around and watch the others or just head off again. The under-keeper was in charge of the record keeping and the trap loader reported each shot’s score to him.

I have never seen a shoot organised this way before but it seemed to work pretty efficiently. Being number seven meant I was first from trap four. This was a standard ‘bird taking off’ flight. One of them, from the tower was an ‘overhead’. There was a ‘towards you’ and a ‘running rabbit’ as well. I was pleased that the trap we’d been given was probably the easiest for a beginner. The traps were single load so that made it easier too.

I was a bit rusty at first missing my first three completely. I then nailed 10 in a row followed by another miss, 10 more smoked and a final miss again. 20 out of 25 is a bit lower than I would have hoped for. I haven’t done this for over a year though!

Laura was a star. She smoked her first two, and clipped the third. She then went in to a regular hit one; miss one sequence through the rest of her allocated clays. Scoring fourteen altogether. She was absolutely delighted with herself. She had easily beaten my score when I first did this all those years ago in Norwich. I got 12 then and the policeman in charge said I was a natural. He might have just been bullshitting a schoolgirl who was only one of three girls who had signed up for their summer school activity (all the rest were boys) but I was hooked despite his words. Who knows what would have happened if the Fencing Class I had gone to sign up for hadn’t been full?

We stayed to watch a few others but by 10.45 decided we’d better leave to get back and changed ready to take the two kids to see The Snowman. The matinee kicked off at 2pm. The leading guy at the time was on 24 and the leading woman 21. Curse her, curse her!

I had just got out of the shower when Callie did her ballistic bark at newcomers, so I knew that Phil and Jane had arrived. After a few minutes, Angela appeared in my bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed to watch me apply eyeliner and mascara, wanting to know if she could have some on? I sent her downstairs to ask her Mum. Jane came up with her, holding Sophie. I stole Sophie and Jane applied the eye liner and mascara to her own daughter’s eyes. Sophie is getting to be quite a weight. I wouldn’t fancy having to walk around holding her for long without a sling or harness or whatever. She actually smiled at me as I made gurgling noises and baby talk which made me feel proud of myself. I told Jane and Angela that she was smiling. Angela said, ”That probably means she’s doing a poo!”

She was! My god, it was whiffy! I declined the offer to change her if I wanted. The benefits of not being the child’s parent, eh? Angela and I went back down to tease Phil while Jane availed herself of our bathroom.

The plan was, Phil would drive us in and drop us outside the theatre on Furnival Gate. Illegally parking no doubt. But hey, he drives a BMW so he can do what he wants! LOL. He had to pull in a bit further along and we had to pile out swiftly before a jobsworth came along with a ticket or something. We arranged we’d wait by the bus stop further along, after the show, and he’d pick us up there.

The Snowman was great. I was really impressed. It had fairly similar sets and backdrops to the Raymond Briggs artwork and the music was the same as the cartoon, but just more of it. Just like the cartoon Act One was at the house and Act Two off to Santa’s. I was enthralled; Laura was enthralled and so was Angela. I had assumed that Peter would be too but during the interval he moaned, “It’s all blooming dancing!” As though dancing was the absolutely worst thing in the world.

We reminded him that he’d been equally unimpressed by the “silly puppet show” earlier in the year; “Peter and the Wolf” at first but by the end he’d loved it. He’d even gone and petted the wolf puppet after the show. This, though, was beyond the pale because it was dancing and it was girly. Dancing was definitely girly and this was definitely dancing. There were no words at all.

There is not a lot you can say to a 10 year old who is obviously echoing his father’s thoughts about things without causing trouble, so we let it rest and tried to persuade him that the second half would be better.

I thought the second half was way better and the ‘Walking in the Air’ sequence, to the ‘real’ music was exquisite. You could tell that Peter didn’t think that was too girly at all. In fact the boy playing “The Boy” and the guy as “The Snowman” were brilliant in the flying sequence. It was all done so discretely if you weren’t expecting it you’d have been taken totally by surprise when they suddenly launched themselves into the air. It was definitely an awe and wonder moment of theatre.

As they travelled they deviated from the cartoon a fair bit and the dancing fruit section was a hoot. Dancing bananas and pineapples may have been in Briggs’ imagination; they definitely were in the choreographers. The North Pole bit with Santa I thought might not go down well with our budding critic but even he seemed to forget it was all dancing. I guess that’s what happens in the cartoon so he was fine with that bit.

Angela loved it to bits. She was dying to get home and watch her DVD again! I think it is a treat for most kids (and their parents) but be wary of worldly wise ten year old boys finding it a bit too ballet-like for their preconceptions to handle.

Phil, as promised, was less than five minutes from the bus stop, and we piled into the car during a lull in the bus traffic. The kids launched into a description of what they’d seen and while the substance of their comments may have differed they were unanimous in saying the flying was magical. I could tell Jane was wishing she’d come too but… leaving Daddy in charge of Baby Sophie, mmmm….. I doubt if Phil is ready for that just yet!

They loved their tea. Comfort food, extra-ordinaire: my cottage pie, with veggies followed by another of the cherry meringue pies as dessert. Replete in both food and culture they wobbled back up to Leeds at about 7.50, leaving us time for a snuggle on the sofa and a reflection on how busy today had just been before Montalbano was shown on BBC 4.

Steve phoned just  after the programme started to let me know I had won 2^nd prize in the women’s competition, which sort of made up for the interruption of our viewing. The prize money was £75 for 1^st; £50 for 2^nd and £25 for 3^rd. A litre of whisky for 1^st; a 75cl bottle for 2^nd and a half bottle for 3^rd. It is a pity if the winners don’t like whisky as that was the only choice.   Steve has my winnings at his house, I’ll pick them up in the morning.

Rah rah rah. In the women’s group Laura’s 14 was a very creditable joint 7^th.

Sunday 23^rd November.

What a morning. It was raining when Callie woke me up. It rained all through our walk, which was curtailed somewhat by the rain and it rained even after we'd got home again. Often, when we go out for a walk when it's raining it as as though Fortuna (another of the Pantheon from which I am descended... Maia, remember?) is playing a trick on her fellow goddess and she persuades Zeus to stop raining on Maia when she returns home. Today the rain continued and continued and continued. I was so pleased the clay shoot was yesterday.

I didn't get to Steve's to collect my winnings, he called round ours first. Which was good of him. he'd probably seen me and Callie coming back bedraggled and looking like drowned rats so he braved the elements instead. Good bloke. The whisky was Bell's, which isn't a bad blend, I would happily quaff away. My favourite blend is Famous Grouse, I do like the sweetness of that particular blend. 

Mum rescued us from a potential day stuck indoors by phoning and asking if we fancied coming to lunch. Of course we went and spent all of the day light hours at her place. Eating several slices of juicy roast beef. Scoffing down a huge piece of apple and blackberry pie, unearthed from Mum's freezer and demolishing a gorgeous bottle of Vino Nobile de Mntepulciano which she found lurking on her wine rack. ( I brought it over a year ago and she'd forgotten all about it!). It was much nicer than I thought it would be but I couldn't remember where the hell I'd bought it.

We told her all about the Snowman and she was miffed she hadn't come with us. She said it sounded brilliant, which it was. She also passed a brief remark about how Peter may be turning out like his father but refused to be drawn on the subject when I pressed her. It would be awfully disappointing if he does. It is not for nothing that I call my brother a boring old fart - it is because he IS a boring old fart!

He used to be funny and risk taking and exciting and dangerous and now he is almost the exact opposite of all those things. Jane has never seen the wild brother who with me blew up a tree stump with home-made explosive, or sailed our yacht all the way from University Broad to Yarmouth or who once handcuffed me to a tree for several hours (he had forgotten I was there when one of his friends called for him!).

It would be lovely to see glimpses of the old Philip, peeping out from below his carapace every once in a while. Sadly it never happens.

We had to stay until after it had gone dark as we felt a bit inebriated during the afternoon and it was only after a set of beef salad sandwiches and several cups of tea that we thought either of us may  be legal to drive. Laura declared she hadn't drunk as much as I had so she drove us home.

Neither of us were too far gone to indulge our passions when we got home. As a bonus it had also stopped raining. Laura decided that as she'd driven home she needn't walk Callie but she'd have a surprise waiting on my return. The surprise was a sleeping Loll with our double ender on the pillow next to her. Much as I would have loved more sex, I decided not to wake her, so I just climbed in along side her and slept too.

“How dare you give my daughter such filth?” & Bryan Adams...

Monday November 17^th.

My tummy ache proved to be totally inconsequential; maybe I was just panicking after seeing Laura laid low with hers on the weekend. We managed a reduced speed at the pool this morning and amused Sarah with details of projectile vomiting. I was amazed that such a thing can really happen and isn’t just a film cliché. Laura said she was disappointed that the aforementioned evacuation of stomach was totally lacking in carrots!

We rearranged Olivia’s tutoring session for tonight as we are off the Sheffield Arena for a concert with Dad and Louisa tomorrow. I get the impression that Olivia may think we lead really glamorous lifestyles. She is sadly mistaken. We have masses of common toil interrupted once in a while with sprinklings of hedonistic pleasure. We are being treated to the tickets to see Bryan Adams because Dad uses it as currency to pay for his lodgings with us, as if he needed to pay at all. I stay at his house almost every other weekend and he never asks me for anything in return. I do cook, bake, clean, do the washing and ironing, and house-sit for him and Louisa, though, plus I exercise all the dogs together when I am there too. If he asked for a donation I would willingly give something although maybe I should ask him if he wants one?

Work was much as usual. My erstwhile colleague and serial flirt, Felice, has broken off her relationship with the science bod who did the photographic magic with our palimpsests. According to her he had outlived his usefulness! This usually means she has got eyes on another guy already. Perhaps I am being unkind. She has given me (and Laura) an invitation to two parties over the vacation, the first we will be able to attend – this is at her place – the second is while we are house sitting for Dad so we may have to cry off that one. Missing the second one would be a pity as it is their faculty bash which has always sounded interesting, from past reports. Perhaps we could whizz down, party like mad, and whizz back the next day. I could use Dad’s new car to bring all the dogs with us. Although the thought of Izzy, Charlie Dog and Moss rampaging through my spotless house give me shivers just contemplating the idea.

Louisa and Dad did some retail therapy at Meadow Hell before they got to ours but they were still inside waiting as we rolled in at 6pm. (He has his own key.) I had to berate Dad severely when we got in as he had done the Times crossword! He grinned and gave me a second copy of the paper, “This one’s yours. I filled in my own!” The bugger. He does stuff like this from time to time to wind me up (not just me it seems, as Louisa said he did the same things to her too). I think your response to this behaviour is a gauge on how much you love or loathe him. I love this jokey, silliness and so does Louisa. For Mum it got to be thoroughly exasperating and one of the reasons he was given the boot. [OK, maybe sleeping with his students was a much more serious factor in their divorce… Technically, Louisa is one of his students too (a mature one) although she didn’t actually begin an affair with him until after she graduated.]

As we hadn’t even had time to consider food for tonight Dad suggested we order a Chinese from the take-away in the village. Always a winner. I paid Kim at the door, when he delivered our bag of foil boxes filled with delights. I thought 28 quid for four main meals and masses of side orders was very reasonable. I told him to keep the change (it was only £30 I handed over.) My stewed chicken with pineapple was a veritable delight. I will seriously have to learn how to make this dish for myself.

We had only just finished when first Trevor and then Olivia and her Mum arrived for their lessons. Dad kept us supplied with tea during our sessions but Olivia and I had to swap locations with Laura and Trevor (who were in the study). This was because Olivia’s Mum and my Dad and Louisa were swapping baby stories about their offspring. It is quite embarrassing to hear people hooting with laughter at your childish exploits. Especially the ones you’d rather weren’t divulged! In the end I dragged Liv upstairs and explained to Loll why we just had to get out of the kitchen. She and Trevor quite happily took our place at the kitchen table; they were quite amused by tales of our past.

After our students had gone I brought out the last of my, experimental, cherry meringue pies as a late dessert to our meal. It received universal approbation and I was entreated to produce some more as quickly as was humanly possible. The bitterness of the cherries does make a good substitute for the sharp lemon filling you usually use. Dad asked what we had in mind for tea tomorrow. I said I had two meat and potato pies defrosting on a shelf in the cellar as we spoke. His eyes lit up. My meat and tater pie tastes just like Mum’s (she taught me how to make it) and it used to be Dad’s all-time favourite. He has had several attempts to make it himself but is always disappointed because it “doesn’t ever taste like Helena’s did”. (Helena is Mum, BTW.)

I told him if he put them in the oven at 4.00 they’d be ready for when we rolled up at around five o’clock. He started to fret about parking at the Arena and whether there would be enough time. I reassured him that we would have masses of time, as I was planning on us taking the tram all the way there instead. Sometimes he is just like an old woman!

Tuesday November 18^th

Dad and Louisa declined the invitation to join us at the pool this morning, although Louisa was up and about as we left, just before six am. “It’s the baby…” were her whispered words.

I thanked the baby no end as when we returned we were greeted with a proper cooked breakfast. I was half concerned that Laura might not want one after her bacon incident of Friday but she tucked in with gusto. Dad was miffed that we had scoffed without him but cheered up when Louisa placed a full plate on the table before him.

Their plans for the day were to do some more Christmas shopping, but this time in the town centre rather than out at Meadow Hell. We left them with a promise to take Callie out if they got the time as I knew they appreciated little strolls in and around Sheffield. I left out a route which would take them up past the Lower Rivelin Dams, which is quite gentle and which Callie loves.

A full Uni day meant we had uninterrupted brain engagement for once on our chosen fields of study. I am lying of course, I am still only part way through my pastoral meetings with my student mentees. I spent most of the morning catching up or waiting to catch up with the last few of my freshers.

We had a sandwich lunch in the refec and headed back for more brain work!

Our chosen method of transport to the Arena was a good idea, although it did get crowded past Park Square.

Mr Adams (lump in throat time, I would have been Mrs Adams if fate hadn’t dealt that blow in 2009) was on for ages. The show was in two halves, the first of which was mainly him and “Reckless”. He wielded an acoustic guitar and was accompanied by a pianist for some numbers, a band for others and I was surprised that I knew a lot of the songs. It was sort of an acoustic set. His banter and chat between numbers was quite revealing. More so than other concerts I have been to (which for Rock Music is hardly any really). I suppose Kathryn Tickell spent ages between songs talking about the next one, too.

After the interval he came out and did a sort of greatest hits selection mixed with covers of old classics, some of which I knew others I had no idea about. I asked Dad how they could be old classics if I’d never heard of them? He said it was because I was musically perverse (but that was good because it meant I was my own woman). I didn’t know whether to hit him or hug him. Laura knew more of the old classics than I did!

I was so pleased we were at the side in the banked seating because the floor seats were abandoned after the opening number as people just stood up. I think Louisa would have had a hard time standing for all that time. We must have been there for a good three hours all in all. Dad pronounced it a hit. I said it was a triumph of enthusiasm over the banal. He wanted to know what that meant and I had to defend myself by saying that quite a lot of the songs, honestly, were banal, really. He was singing homespun tales of small town life which, by their very nature, appealed to a large audience because people’s lives, in general, are also banal. That didn’t make them any less valid, it just wasn’t culture with a capital C.

I was told that I missed the point. The culture of the ordinary people didn’t need a capital C. It was only the intelligentsia who tried to force everyone into thinking that Art and Literature were supreme and everything else trite and or worthless.

I was really pleased when Louisa asked, “Did you like it?” I answered, “Yes.” She continued with, “Well, what’s the problem then? That’s all that matters. You liked it.”

Dad tried to explain that we weren’t being serious. We just try to challenge each other’s intellectual stance on things from time to time. I have been known to argue the opposite case equally as rigorously. It didn’t mean we believed any of it at all, we just enjoyed the mental challenge. Laura and Louisa exchanged a looked which needed no words but summed exactly what they thought about our ‘airy fairy nonsense’. (Laura’s words, later in bed.)

I did enjoy the concert. It brought back lots of good memories of my childhood. Surely, in the end that is all music is supposed to do? Remind us of our past and the things we enjoy? Apart from that bloody awful Robin Hood music! Arrggghhh! That got one of the biggest cheers of the night. (Trite and banal wins the day?)

Wednesday 19^th Nov.

Sarah thinks Bryan Adams is good. Laura told her I thought a lot of his stuff was trite and banal but she said he was singing about real things that happen to people. I give up!

Our half work, half Uni day went by swiftly and Mrs Briggs was surprised to hear we’d been to the Arena for a rock concert. I spared her my critic of the man and his music and just said we’d enjoyed it. Dad texted to say they were leaving this morning and could I pass on the carrier bag of presents to Phil and Jane at the weekend, in case they didn’t catch up with each other before he and Louisa fly off to Aus for Chrimbo.

When we got home the carrier bag turned out to be three bags and not the usual sized ones either, but carrier bags gone large! Pangs of jealousy touched my feeble brain for a second or two until I realised I spend too much on my nieces and nephews so why should I criticise Dad for spending dosh on his grand kids?

Laura’s Bobbi was on time and keen to work so I left them to it and did some more work on my embroidery. I don’t seem to have touched it for a while. Been busy, busy, busy. As if to reinforce this point Steve knocked on my door not long after I had started and asked if I fancied coming to a clay shoot they were having on Saturday morning. There is no picking up for some reason, and so the syndicate has organised a clay event for anyone who shoots or helps out. Isn’t that good? They are going to charge a fiver to enter and the prizes will be made from the entry fee plus some booze.

I asked Laura if she fancied coming along and having a go, and she agreed! I haven’t done any clay shooting for nearly two years. I wandered off to the gun safe and altered the chokes on my Beretta, while I remembered to do it, and gave the thing a jolly good clean and oil. It had been done the last time I went picking up but it doesn’t hurt. I also checked my claying cartridges, I have about 250 left. They give a different, wider, spread pattern to game cartridges and use more, tinier, shot. I realised I am looking forward to this more than I would have any picking up.

I’ll check with the farmer who owns the back field behind our house and, if he’s agreeable, I’ll get Loll to have a practice firing the gun in the field before we head over to Rotherham on Saturday morning. I will inform the neighbours too. The farmer is a pretty friendly chap who we have beaten in the monthly pub quiz over the last two years on a regular basis. [There is a special “Christmas Edition” next Thursday, for which the Scampi Tails are already primed.]

When Steve had gone I managed quite a lot of work on the new scene for my casket before Bobbi left. Laura has started to have doubts about entering the Clay Shoot already. I was able to reassure her that they were having three sections, Men, Women and Novice of either gender. I had told Steve to enter her in Novice. She seemed a bit more cheered about it after that. She should cope with my gun easily enough, I have a slightly shorter barrel  length and it is not as heavy as some guns I have fired in the past. Watch her go and do something mad, and win her group.

She came with me on the final walk of the day and we were able to see the mist starting to rise in the valley floor. I love it when it does that. All of the buildings get obscured and it looks like we are in the real countryside, not in a village on the edge of a city. I am also inspired by the way the stars are still as clear as anything yet below us the village is obscured by the rising water vapour. We even had a final, finger nail paring, waning crescent moon in the sky. No owls though, tonight.

Thursday November 20^th.

Sarah is surprised about the Clay Shoot. I thought she knew all about my game shooting activities but it has come as a complete surprise to her. We spent ages after the swimming talking about how I got into it. My rifle shooting at University. Winning the best woman shot three years in a row for the rifle. All of which added an extra level of interest to my already bulging at the seams lifestyle. I reminded her about the Christmas Quiz next week (she is now an Honorary Scampi too) and she said she was looking forward to it.

Jenny-Leigh, tonight was doing Seamus Heaney! Doing is the right word. She is definitely not enamoured of him at all. I suppose he can be an acquired taste. Actually, I think a lot of poetry is an acquired taste (or even an affectation on the part of some people). I think the Flax-dam has festered for J-L to be honest.

“All year the flax-dam festered in the heart
Of the townland; green and heavy headed
Flax had rotted there, weighted down by huge sods.”

She considered Seamus himself to be one of the huge sods! Which I thought was quite funny, for her. Once I had got her thinking along the right lines she seemed to understand her task so much more. Once she had finished we talked about poetry in general and she asked if I really read the stuff for pleasure. I got up and showed her shelves of poetry books in the study (attic bedroom where we were working) all of which were well thumbed.

She asked which poet was my favourite and I told her John Donne. She was intrigued by my potted biography of him, so I got her to read ‘The Flea’. She couldn’t make head nor tail of it. So I explained it’s theme to her then I read again out loud. Once I had done that (pun intended) and she understood what it was about she was really shocked that such ideas could be written down in poetry. This led naturally on to Sonnet 135. An explanation of the use of the word ‘will’ resulted in her being even more shocked. I think I may just have opened her eyes to the potential wonders and sexuality to be found in the poetry of our nation. I did have to concede that sexually Heaney was probably a dead fish though!

Here’s Sonnet 135 for those who don’t know it:

Whoever hath her wish, thou hast thy Will,
And Will to boot, and Will in overplus; 
More than enough am I that vex thee still, 
To thy sweet will making addition thus. 
Wilt thou, whose will is large and spacious,
Not once vouchsafe to hide my will in thine? 
Shall will in others seem right gracious, 
And in my will no fair acceptance shine? 
The sea all water, yet receives rain still 
And in abundance addeth to his store; 
So thou, being rich in Will, add to thy Will
One will of mine, to make thy large Will more. 
Let no unkind no fair beseechers kill; 
Think all but one, and me in that one Will.

She left clutching a copy of John Donne’s Selected Poems and a new found interest in the long neglected art form. Well, long neglected by the general public, that is. I felt quite pleased with my evening’s endeavour.

No doubt I will get an angry call from her parents, “How dare you give my daughter such filth?” They often do. (Not to me, but to Mum when she was Head of English.)  Yet I bet they read The Sun and ogle naked women daily, thinking nothing of it!

Never ill Laura laid low.

Friday 14^th November & Saturday 15^th November (Run together.)

We drove up to Dad’s mid-afternoon, well everyone else skives off why shouldn’t we? We stopped at Sedbury Layby at Scotch Corner to give Callie a loo break and pour some tea from our flask. Laura said she was going to get a bacon buttie from the café and did I want one. I declined and asked for a chocolate bar instead.

By the time I got back from stretching Callie’s legs the Lollster was almost through the bacon buttie. She declared it was delicious. I made do with my Double Decker instead. This could be relevant to subsequent events.

Dad was back home when we arrived and the evening meal about half an hour from being ready. I gave Louisa a hand with the veggies whilst Laura whipped round to her Mum and Dad’s to tell them we were here and she’d see them tomorrow.

We had belly pork and veggies and baked apples. It was all delicious. I must admit I ended up giving Callie the fat from my piece of pork (and Laura did the same with hers). This also could be relevant to subsequent events.

I took the pack for their final walk after a night spent avoiding ‘Children in Need’ on the TV. It does drive me mad at the best of times (TV that is) but all the fake bonhomie and insincerity of this night of fun, charitable giving is hideous.

When we retired for the night, we spent some time amusing ourselves with a feather I have in my wardrobe. The erotic potential for such an item is immense and I was able to make Laura have three orgasms in a row by its skilful use, coupled with dextrous fingers and tongue. She gave me reciprocated pleasure too.

Because we had become a little sweaty with our exertions we gave each a flannel wash as we lay on top of the bedclothes. Laura did it to me first and we ended up writhing about once more when her tongue joined in with the flannel in a rather interesting spot. When it was my turn to wield the cloth I was gently getting all her nooks and crannies cleaned when she suddenly went, “OMG!” She sat upright, clutched her stomach and dashed to the en-suite.

From the bedroom I could hear the sounds of someone talking to the big white telephone. I padded in to find my lovely with her arms wrapped about the rim of the toilet chundering for England. She had turned a very pale colour and her face had gone quite greasy and clammy looking. I pulled out some wet wipes from the packet on the shelf by the cistern, and carefully wiped her mouth. She took the wipe from me and finished off what I had started. I was going to kiss her but she said, “Don’t, I will taste foul after all that..”

I asked her if she was OK and what did she think had brought it on? She told me it was my earlier efforts with the feather (etc) which had so jumbled round her insides it wasn’t surprising her tum was in turmoil. She cleaned her teeth, assured me she was alright now, and we climbed into bed. I spent a long time hugging her, with her head against my bosom, stroking her hair between my fingers. We must have gone to sleep like this because a few hours later (1.45 am according to the digital clock’s blue glow) she carefully extracted herself from my arms, slipped form the bed and rushed to the en-suite for a repeat performance.

I got up, took her dressing gown into the en-suite and made her put it on. I then perched on the edge of the bidet and tried to comfort her. She asked for a drink of water, so I toddled off into the kitchen and brought back a tumbler of water. She finished the lot in one swallow and then squatted back hugging the toilet. She ordered me to get back in to bed at once; there was nothing I could actually do and it was stupid both of us getting cold and tired. Before I clambered back under the duvet I sped off down to the utility room and brought up a bucket which I placed on her side of the bed.

I couldn’t sleep. After about half an hour I tiptoed into the bathroom and found the little creature fast asleep across the toilet bowl, I prised her hands from the rim and guided her back to bed, pointing out the bucket by her bedside. I took off her dressing gown she clambered in bed alongside me and snuggled next to me for warmth and comfort. Or I assume that’s why she did it.

Three more times in the night she went for the short walk across my bedroom floor, despite the bucket being by her bedside. At 6am she wasn’t next to me again so I went to the bathroom again to find the door locked. She called through the door, “Don’t come in. I’m poohing. It smells horrible!” When she finally surfaced she was right the odour from inside was dreadful. She did open the little window and left the light on, so the extractor fan was going like billy-o too.

I got up and took the pack up Tallentire Hill. When the pups had been thoroughly dried off and given their brekkers I went to see how my Loll was doing. Just the same. No vomit any more, just Liquid Pickfords from the Pine End. This continued well into mid-morning and then past lunchtime. I had forced a new packet of oral rehydrate down her neck after every visit to the toilet, to try and stem the tide. Laura’s Mum came round to carry out a third degree on why her baby was unwell after I called her to explain why she had not put in an appearance at their place.

The gathered heads all decided (and we were unanimous on this) that she must have picked something up from the bacon buttie at Sedbury Layby. Apart from that we had all eaten and drunk the exact same things all evening, even down to a shared box of cherry liqueur chocolates from Marks & Spencers!

The victim of all this just sat in one of Dad’s reclining chairs, hugging her tummy and wishing out loud, that it would all go away. Molly tried to persuade her to go back home with her but Laura baulked at the idea saying that all her stuff was here at Dad’s and anyway I was looking after her; plus, if she was infectious or anything, going to another house could be simply spreading the infection further still. Molly was forced to see the sense in that, so we all persuaded Laura that going back to bed and having a sleep might be the best solution. I took her upstairs and made her climb into bed again. (She’d put on a pair of my Paddington Bear Pjs by now and looked unbelievably cute.)

I sprawled out on the sofa bed and read some more of my book whilst Laura snored gently.

She refused any food at tea time but said she was feeling a little better although her tummy was really sore. She said she wanted a shower but felt a bit too weak to go and have one, so I suggested a bath instead. She agreed and I went and ran one for her in the family bathroom. (It’s the only bath in the house, TBH. Dad & Louisa’s room has an en-suite, I have an en-suite and there is a family shower room downstairs, next to the utility room. Three showers and only one bath.)

I had made it marginally too hot for her, but with a little addition of cold she climbed in and had a soak. I went and made a cuppa for both of us (she asked for another glass of water instead, when I got back) and then I proceeded to gently wash her. We have done this before and it has often turned into quite an erotic experience. On one occasion a full clothed Yours Truly, was pulled into the bath by a highly turned on Laura and we made love in the bath. Today was different. Yes, I could feel the frisson as I washed her carefully with the loofah mit and sponge; being careful not to hurt her delicate little places by over vigorous rubbing. Inappropriate or not, I could feel myself getting really wet as I washed her.

Drying was done initially in the bathroom and then we repaired to my room again, where she lay on the bed on a clean fluffy towel and I finished drying her off. She made me sit next to her when we’d finished and she slid her fingers under my skirt and into my panties. “I thought so…” she said. And despite the fact she must have been feeling extremely weak and tired she used her fingers and thumb to give me an orgasm. It was so lovely that she had sensed what I was feeling even though I was trying to be clinical and detached, like a dispassionate nurse doing her duty. I should have stopped her, but the feel of her hand on my knee and then my thigh made all sensible thoughts disappear.

I helped her into my Eeyore Pjs this time and within a few minutes she had dozed off again. Before she drifted off into the land of nod she put her fingers into her mouth and said, in a disappointed tone, “Mmm…. I can’t taste you on these at all. Pity that. I love the way you taste!”

I spent the rest of the evening doing a shuttle service up and down the stairs replenishing water and trying (unsuccessfully) to get her to eat a little something. I stayed on the sofa bed and Laura slept on and off. As though being endowed with sensitivity (for a change) Dad said he’d take Callie for her walk at the end of the day with his three. As Loll was away in a deep sleep at this time (10.45 pm), I said I would go with him. We went up to the bench on Tall Hill and sat down to look at the lights and the stars in the (surprisingly) clear sky. He came out with something along the lines of, you only know how much you love someone when they are ill and you have to look after them. I whacked him on the arm and asked him, “Who are you and what have you done with my Dad?”

We had a good giggle at that and he pretended to be insulted that I thought he wasn’t a caring, lovey dovey type of person. He told me that if I ever become a parent I will see that even more with my children. Although it is irrational, the thought you might lose the thing you care for most strengthens the bond between you.

Mmm…. Dad getting philosophical on me? That is a new one. This could be quite scary. I don’t want a new Dad, I want the old irreverent, devil may care, make a joke out of everything Dad. Perhaps it’s the thought that he’s about to become a father again 27 years since I came along that has made him think seriously again. I hope for the new baby’s sake she gets the same Dad that I had. A new philosophical, serious Dad would be no fun at all. Although, of course, the baby will know no difference. He will simply be her Dad and that’s that!

Sunday 16^th November

Laura managed a full night’s sleep, at least, if she woke up in the night she didn’t wake me in the process. She also said she felt quite a lot better. Her tummy still felt a little tender but, all in all, she thought the worst might be passed. Phew! She could even face a slice of plain, unbuttered toast this morning for breakfast and then we both strolled down to Molly and Eric’s so that Molly could see she was on the mend for herself. We stayed there for a good three hours gossiping and catching up on all our bits of news. Laura does Skype her Mum at least twice a week but there is always so much more you can think of to say face to face, isn’t there?

We hit Dad’s just in time for lunch, which Laura merely nibbled at, so we were given a red cross parcel of some of the breast meat and a leg (it was roast chicken) to take back home for our lunch tomorrow.

Dad and Louisa will be driving down from Lancaster tomorrow, they are planning on getting to ours in the late afternoon and then they will go for a take away from the local Chinese restaurant for our evening meal. Laura will be tutoring Trevor (as usual) and I have moved Olivia to Monday to free up our Bryan Adams night.

We drove back down at about 3.30 so it would just be going dark when we got home. When we pulled up Laura decided she was hungry after all and ate a huge chicken salad sandwich. I had a less enormous one and then we settled down for a cuddle on the sofa in front of our recorded Montalbano episode from Saturday night. Laura didn’t see the end as she fell asleep.

I decided an early night would be good, so after a swift walk with Callie we were in the charp by 10.15.

I did wake up with a terrible stomach ache in the night. I was seized with dread that I might have caught whatever Laura had had, however a glug of Gaviscon from the bottle seemed to settle things no end. I did wake up in the morning with dreadful wind though! Laura thought it was highly amusing.