Preparing

As I said in the catch-up blog a few days ago, there's a lot happening at the end of this week, but preparations really made themselves aparrent yesterday (and, yes, I know that Phill has been writing lists for weeks, but...whose blog is this, anyway)?

We (er, I) use our spare bedroom to change out of my working clothes and yesterday noticed that a suitcase was laid ready on one side of the double bed. This is the usual MO whenever we travel anywhere, but to see just one case is unusual and confirmation that Philippa is going to the US of A on her lonesome.

It's going to be strange having her missing like this and it's only the third time it's happenned since we got married (the other two occasions she was in Kansas on business and when we moved houses to and from Bath, that is). Whatever, it'll be odd dropping her off at LHR on Friday and coming home on my own. All together now....

The other bit of prep involved trying to get tickets for the rugby league grand final on Saturday. The ticket office at Headingley wasn't taking calls or on-line orders and was only open late last night ('till 7), so in order to avoid the stress of ordering them directly from the RFL, it was a case of getting to Headingley in plenty of time to avoid the rush of after-workers like me.

I left work at five on the dot and made swift progress (sorry, officer) up the M1 from Rotherham, arriving at Headingley an hour later. Hoping that the queue wouldn't be a long one I turned down St. Michael's lane and saw...not a soul! Had they sold out? Had everyone locked up and gone home? No, there were the open doors of the ticket office. I parked, then parked somewhere else to avoid being clamped, and wandered in.

Some boobs with a girl attached wandered over to the counter and asked what I wanted.
My killer response? "Er, two grand final tickets please". "We've got 'em behind the sticks" she said, from some distance further away than the rest of her, and after confirming that these were the only tickets left, I paid up and walked round to the club shop. There a bloke (no boobs) sold me a replica shirt and a real baseball cap for Phill to take to the US for a friend's son.

That's it. No photos this time - you'll understand why.

Back in the saddle

So it's been a while - May to be precise - and there's simply too much to talk about, so here's a few highlights.

Silverstone & the British Grand PrixPhill and Soph persuaded me that it would be a good idea to go out to The Pizza Hut for tea one Friday in June. Truth be told, I didn't need asking twice, so we pitched up at Kirkstall and got on with demolishing three enormous pizzas.

While we were waiting for them to arrive, Phill and Soph exchanged knowing looks and passed an envelope across, saying that it was an early 50th birthday present. I froze, knowing what it was even before opening it. Indeed, it was tickets to the race, but for all THREE days and I'm not ashamed to say that a piece of stray grit made my eyes water with excitement.

Well, we went and had a brilliant time, staying close to the circuit and seeing all the action, but what made it really special was the fact that Sophie, bless her heart, had agreed to miss one of the Ilkley shows so Phill and I could go (that's a big thing for her, as the partnership was just coming together) and one of my colleagues at work had helped Phill to organise the Friday off without me knowing.

Spain
We were in Andalucia for my 50th which, like all the other days we were there, was red hot (30+) and relaxing.

We rented a villa with a pool, in the middle of the hills about an hour north of Malaga. Everywhere was bleached brown, there having been no rain for four months, and we hardly saw a cloud for the two weeks we were there. My attitude to the application of sun cream was slightly more responsible than usual: no choice, really - the sun being of full-on industrial strength - but Phill used gallons of the stuff, plus all the after-sun products imaginable. She was, therefore, particularly outraged when I went brown instantly and she not only took longer, but adopted a mottled look which the rest of us decided was similar to the outline of several minor central-European states.


My attempts at Spanish (at this point it's worth stating that I've nver been to Spain before) met with general approval from those locals we met and were aided above and beyond the call of duty by Elena, the friend Sophie brought along with her.

As you can see from the pic, it was an idyllic place and we can't wait to go back; not least to visit the Alhambra palace, which is jaw-droppingy beautiful.

Unlike all our previous holidays together, we had only to travel to Yeadon to take the flight, something which made the whole thing much easier and less tiring. I really don't envy Phill's up-coming long-haul from Heathrow to St Louis.

Leeds Rhinos

Well, I suppose it had to happen. The irresistable lure of testoesterone leaking out of every pore, the sight of finely-honed torsos, glistening, oiled thighs - no, not a Friday night in Bar T'at, but a Friday night at Headingley (or Headingley Carnegie, as we're encouraged to call it). And, no, this isn't me erupting from the closet, but Sophie developing a sudden interest in professional sport.


I'm happy to go along with this because 1) it isn't football, and therefore is reasonably affordable, 2) it isn't football, and therefore we are less likely to be surrounded by foul-mouthed racists, 3) it isn't in Bradford, 4) I enjoy it and it's something we can do together.

Now, when I were a lad (and, keeeerist, the sound of that does nothing other than encourage me to go for a walk in the woods with a bottle of scotch and a revolver loaded with a single bullet) mum and dad took me to see Leeds FC play Hull KR FC. It was a bright August Saturday, I think, and we stood in the bottom of the South Stand. Leeds won 45-5, something I remember because John Atkinson (no relation, but I wished he had been) scored five tries. Years of Leeds United and, later, Liverpool and Sheffield Wednesday (the last two being guilty mistresses) erased any affinity there may have been with Leeds RL, but it's pleasant to go back and have a look. Of course the game and the men who play it have changed out of all proportion, but the sport's accessability and distinct lack of B.S. (when compared with football) make all of this very easy.

So what's coming up? Well, it's going to be a very busy couple of weeks...

Last night, Soph and I went to Headingley to watch the Rhinos get to the grand final, then next Friday I have the day off to drive Phill down to Heathrow, from where she flies to St. Louis to see her best friend, Debra Crowe - the two of them manage to pick up where they left off, years apart. On the following day, Phez is moving to a new yard - so that will be stressful for all concerned, him included - and then (if we can get tickets) Soph and I will be off to Old Trafford for the grand final. We'll have the week on our own, which will be good in some ways but miserable in others (hate it when one of us is missing), but the next Saturday we're off to London to stay over with my totally brilliant sista (Gail) and her fmaily before picking Phill up from the airport early on Sunday.

I'll keep you posted. Probably.

Where the heck have you been?

Blogging is a discipline, it seems, so the absence of entries for the last few days indicates a certain lack of that quality, or time. So, it is either a question of priority or personal weakness – I prefer the former but suspect the latter also has a part to play.

These words take shape in the buffet car (the last refuge of the unreserved traveller) of a rather grubby train standing at platform 1, King’s Cross. Who knows where we’ll be when they are finished.

The last few days seem to have been busy but not desperately fulfilling, but I guess that is a function of measure rather than reality. One exception to this was my meeting on Thursday last week with Glyn Watkins, a fellow boarder on IM.com, who had said he would be in Bar Tat (still no punctuation) from six, if anyone fancied dropping in for a drink. Never having met Glyn before (but having exchanged posts on I-M.com) it seemed a good excuse to socialise, particularly as Phill and Sophie were at the stables and I had half-an-hour to spare.

As it turned out, Glyn was just leaving as I arrived: he looked suitably puzzled at being hailed by a complete stranger but, following my introduction, was happy to go back inside. We had a beer and a chat, during which we discovered that we share a wholly irreverent disrespect for radish-up-the-bum, self-serving authority.

The weekend was predictably busy: Sophie’s friend was coming to stay on Saturday night, so the morning’s cleaning regime was particularly diligent and involved me having the single mattress from it’s hiding place in the spare bedroom and threading it into Sophie’s room. Once all that was done I disappeared up to White Wells for a cup of tea while Phill went down to the stables.

Mark, the chap who runs WW, had the birthday flag out and he mentioned that it was because someone who was celebrating a ‘special’ birthday was coming up to take the plunge in the spa bath next to his café. He explained that the water is at a constant 7 deg (celcius) all year round, which cheered me up somewhat because I have resolved to start 2010 with a plunge of my own, but more of that in Jan. The plungee arrived and her shrieks, plus the cheers of her followers, confirmed that the deed was done. One of the party poked their head round the door to say that Mark would have eight cold people coming round for a cup of tea to warm up.

I went home with a book of dos and don’ts for horse transport, kindly sourced by Fraser. See further down for more on this subject. Once home I got on the net to book Phill’s flight tickets for her visit to St Louis later this year. I’ve been putting this off for a while because the itineraries, which seemed so simple before Christmas, have become more involved. Another complication is that the pricing offered by the available carriers varies wildly: some include taxes up-front while others don’t, so it was a matter of drilling down to find the true cost and combine the best prices with the most convenient schedule. Just when everything seemed settled I noticed that the return flight involved an unreasonably long layover in the US (Phill will have to change ‘planes both ways), but finally it was settled: American Airlines will have the pleasure of her company via Chicago on the way out and Dallas coming back. This means that she will pull further ahead of me in the “American States I Have Visited” competition. Rats.

We had a carpet picnic tea, mainly so everyone could watch the Eurovision song contest, but after a while I’d had enough and decided to go back on the computer. We were all late to bed, which didn’t bode well because we had an early start for Ilkley show the next day.

We were up at just turned five and I dropped Soph and her friend down to the stables at six. Phez had been plaited by Phill’s fair hand the day before, and just needed to be ridden in and given a final groom before being loaded into the trailer. As usual he went in without a murmur, but this time he was accompanied by my video camera, wedged against the front bulkhead: I wanted to see just what happened when we could feel him stamping about.

After what seemed a fairly steady ride down to the showground I looked at the tape while the others were sorting him out, and the evidence was terrifying! Hoof marks on the wall of the box indicated that he was scrabbling with both front and rear hooves, something that the pictures confirmed. He was leaning quite violently on the centre partition and it seemed several times that he was on the point of going down. We will have to get some expert advice on this one, because this just can’t go on. Quite apart from his welfare, which obviously comes first, my nerves won’t stand it.

The day’s competition wasn’t particularly successful. Soph and Phez achieved a 4th in the part-bred show, thanks to one of the worst pieces of judging we’ve ever seen. The winner’s show wasn’t as good as our two, second was good but wrong-legged it, and the third combination looked as though they’d only just been introduced. Soph, bless her, finished fourth on the strength of Pez’s slightly stiff hind quarter – that’s what the judge told her – which in our book was good enough for a second at least. It is not the done thing to question or complain, but when results are so obviously contrived the purpose of competition has to be questioned.

On the tube in London this morning I noticed that one of me fellow travellers was balancing a printed cardboard box on his knee. The print betrayed that the box once held chilled chips (freedom fries – ho ho ho) and that – get this – they were of a given size: 14mm, or 9/16ths of an inch. Is this a standard size in the world of the chip and WHY is it necessary to have both metric and imperial measurements? Do caterers employ quality control standards? Do they take random samples and test them with the callipers? I know a place that uses chilled part-cooked chips (The Craven Arms at Appletreewick) so will be having a close look the next time we go. Watch this space for a no-holds-barred expose.

The timelines in all of the above are hoplessly out of date, but who cares? There'll no doubt be a catch-up blog over the weekend to fill in the gaps - if I have time, that is.

So its a week since the last blog and 1,ooo miles have passed along the way (Stirling, London Rotherham & Milton Keynes, and I'm writing this on the train out of London after a two meeting day.

The trip to Scotland last week was the first this year where the sky was light enough (its always an early start) to see the scenery on the drive up: the M6 winds along the Lune Gorge and through the Southern Uplands, both of which are magnificent in any light, but in the flat early-morning spring light they look superb.


London no longer has the buzz it once did: going there once every few weeks has made normal the travelling on the tube and all the other things that we don't see at TEOIM, however it was nice to have a few minutes in hand before my appointment, which were spent Blackberrying from the Thames embankment at Temple.


The journey home that day was unexpectedly straightforward: emerging from the rabbit hole at King's Cross I saw that a Leeds train would leave in a couple of minutes, so a swift walk (I don't run in public if it can possibly be avoided) got me on board, where I easily found a seat. No vertically swaying tedium at the carriage-end.


Phill and I decided that we deserved a night in the pub on Friday, so we ate pizza with Soph and then drove down into town, parking the car on the Grove. Once in Bat Tat (where the walls have been painted and no longer bear lines from Yorkshire's unofficial anthem) we realised that we were both exhausted so, after only three-quarters of an hour, decided to head home where we hit the sack and watched TV until we fell asleep, which didn't take long.


On Saturday I started on the garden and managed to clear about three feet of border in a couple of hours, at one point using the land-rover to tow out a stubborn stump. We had another trip into town in the afternoon, where I bought some clothes for the holiday in August, briefly visited Bar Tat (again) and received a call from Soph asking that we pick her up from the stables (sooner than expected). Unusually, I was unable to sleep so spent a couple of hours on the internet once Phill had gone to bed. The usual diet of I-M.com and Facebook was enlivened with an unexpected and welcome exchange with Chantal from St Louis; an anglophile with roots in the English aristocracy.

C is highly intelligent, articulate and has a love (alright, obsession) with French and Saunders, all of which are evident from her Facebook homepage. Her love of all things British prompted the posting of a union flag on her page, to which I said that she really must scrape together the air-fare and come over to stay with us, if possible with her son, Ethan. A brief exchange of messages later and the intent was agreed, so hopefully next year we will have the pleasure of her extrovert, wonderful company. It will be interesting to see what a US Parole Officer makes of TEOIM!

We started Sunday with an indulgent breakfast at Booth's supermarket in Ilkley: their food is good but the atmos, although OK, is not what one usually associates with the full English. Phill's toast and marmalade looked good and, as always, the tea was of peerless quality. Once done, we took Phez out for a confidence-building ride in the trailer, which succeeded in shredding his nerves, mine, Sophie's and those of the other drivers forced to follow our snail's pace - at least they remained patient, unlike the loon that overtook us in the face of oncoming traffic and almost precipitated a horrendous accident last time out. I think a line in the letters page of the local rag might be in order.

Sophie, bless her, spent most of the afternoon revising for a science test and I kicked back and watched the Spanish GP (Button, Barrichello, Webber). Phill drew the short straw: practising plaiting his lordship's mane is not my idea of an afternoon's relaxation. The tables were turned, however, when she was able to do nowt while I cooked Sunday dinner - a piece of beef from Booths which was spot-on: we'll be going back there for sure.

It was the usual early start for today's trip to London: drive into Leeds and park near the station to avoid the mind-sapping train ride from Ilkley. I'd commute like that if there was no reasonable alternative, but being trapped among the silent masses listening to the one talkative bloke regaling has pals with tales of last night's squash game just sucks the life out of you.

Having got the tickets for today's odyssey I stopped for a coffee (£2.39) and attempted to pay by card, only to be told that there was a £5 minimum for card transactions. No change. Long queue at the cash point. Imminent departure time. Need caffeine!!! Rats. Creativity to the rescue: the Italian lady serving said, after consulting her colleague in that beautiful language, that she would put the transaction through at £5 and give me change. I hope that my smile and quite genuine thanks were sufficient - good old customer service: it can't be beat.

The May bank holiday weekend

Since the last post we've done the 200+ mile drive from home to Marshfield, Gloucestershire, to visit our friends Bill and Jean for the long bank-holiday weekend. Sophie is nursing the holes left by two missing teeth, removed on Friday morning, plus a bad case of equine cold turkey, but is otherwise quite OK. Phill and I are just very happy to have a long weekend and the opportunity to do a little more with B&J than is normal: our visits are usually confined to one full day followed by a Sunday morning dash back up the motorway.

The car was as full as it usually is (a large soft case, assorted (mysterious) plastic carriers, camera gear and, this time, a cool box full of lasagne ingredients), with the addition of a small blue cabin-crew case containing my gear. A few days ago, a 'travel expert' did a piece on Radio 4 in which he gave advice on how not to lose one's luggage. Apart from not cluttering the handles with tags and making sure that your name and address is on the inside of the case, his best advice was simply not to check any bags at all and to carry all you need onto the plane. Obviously this needs a very small case and as we are flying to Spain later this year, where shorts and Ts will be worn, I thought it worth trying. Suffice to say that it worked, but my warm outer layer ended up smelling strongly of barbecue for most of the weekend.

We arrived to the usual warm welcome and, while Phill & Jean were assembling the lasagne, Bill and I slipped off to the pub for half an hour.

The Catherine Wheel (on the left) in Marshfield is a magnificent building, much of which goes back to the 15th century, with high ceilings and some good beer. It was deserted when we walked in; so much so that the land-lady had to leave her paperwork, which was spread out on one of the tables in the bar, to serve us.

Bill and I chatted - the usual welcome catch-up - and then headed back for dinner, which was delicious and accompanied by a pile of garlic bread. Soph, who is not a lasagne person, made do with soup in deference to her raw gums. After eating, we chatted over wine and TV and then toddled off to bed: Soph in a room of her own and Phill and I out to B&J's caravan, which is parked on the drive outside their ground floor flat. This might not be everyone's idea of weekend accommodation, but it is fine by us because it is spacious, quiet and, above all, comfortable and private.
B&J have turned over part of their garden to a clutch of chickens to which, since our last visit, they have introduced George, a randy white cockerel. First thing the following morning heard him crowing (from his perch inside the coop) and this, combined with the curch bell tolling on the hour, ensured we had an early start (which was good because it meant we wrung the most from the day).

After breakfast (bacon, eggs from the garden and teriffic local sausages) we piled into the car and drove to Clarke's at Shepton Mallet, to buy clothes for the holiday. Apart from picking up a nice shirt, the trip didn't go well for me because 1) I am still too fat to fit even into XL sizes and 2) refuse to pander too much to high-street fashion, most of which is revolting. This limits the options somewhat, but Phill did well and looked stunning in the black patterned silk dress she found. Her new super-slim figure means she can now get into things she hasn't worn for years and makes her feel so much better.

On the way back to B&J's, we stopped off at Glastonbury Tor. Parking was scarce, but we found a spot in front of a farmer's gate (which didn't appear to be well-used), which we reasoned was OK because the ladies were staying with the car while Bill and I climbed up to the tower. My suede Merrells, which have no backs, aren't ideal for climbing, but the walk was mercifully short and the views from the top, which was well-populated by a good mix of folk, were superb. One of the people, a middle-aged chap with greying hair and a pony tail, stepped into the hollow tower and began to throat-sing: a unique sound that can't be described, so go here and listen for yourself...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TVyyhHFKI8E

We walked back down the slope, rejoined the others and drove home, where Bill and I eventually lit the barbecue and then cremated most of the food, much to Jean's displeasure. Luckily Phill wasn't hungry and Soph spent most of her time tumbling round the garden with NAME , Jean's grandson. Afterwards, we went inside and watched an ITV talent showand were amazed by a very nervous Welshman, who obviously struggled in his life, who produced a truly remarkable singing performance which surprised everyone. Good luck to him.

Next day, after another good night's sleep, another early start and another cracking breakfast, Bill and I set off in his truck to see the speed hill climb at Shelsley Walsh, an hour or so away up the M5. Once parked, we walked to the course in time to see the first cars rocket away from the start, one at a time. This was a practise (the meeting proper was the following day) so there weren't too many spectators, meaning that we could walk where we pleased and be sure of getting a good view. I can reccommend the bacon rolls from the van up by the esses: together with a cup of tea they managed to keep the cold at bay. There was a real mixture of vehicles, some ex-formula 2 & 3 cars, some modern and some vintage cars. One tiny Sprite broke the speed trap at 40mph; a Pilbeam F3 car managed 125mph, leaving a shower of sparks as it's titanium under-tray rode over a bump on the course.










For me, our walk round the pits was the highlight of the day and we had the opportunity to look very closely at all the mechanical twiddly bits. There was a good collection of Lotuses, which were in their heyday when I first learned about Formula 1 (I was named after Mike Hawthorn, the reigning world chamion when I was born) and the likes of Jim Clarke and Graham Hill were my early heroes. Some of the drivers were quite relaxed and were there just for fun, while others were deadly serious; poring over laptops and data-loggers - thousandths of a second making the difference between winning and losing.

We drove back to Marshfield and, after dinner, failed to watch a Clint Eastwood film. Bill and I were all about it, but Phill and Jean weren't and sloped off for a walk. Unsurprisingly, we got a call half an hour later, summoning us to the Catherine Wheel, where we reunited for the last drink of the weekend in the bar that was now lively with conversation. On the walk back, I found out that it is not possible to make giant shadow animals using the floodlights that illuminate Marshfield church tower.

The following day took the usual form: breakfast, then everything in a rush as we packed the car, hugged farewells and then headed north, pausing only for coffee and the obligatory supermarket stop. Once home, the washing machine went into over-drive and we lost Sophie, who always likes to touch base with her room (and has done ever since being small). We were tired from the journey, but it was a very good weekend.

Thursday 30th April

This is going to be a very short post (no cheering at the back, please) because there isn't much to add and the pressures of that which has no place here are such that time is limited.

Post-blog yesterday I got an invitation to the pub from one of the folk I've come to know from I-M.com. Fraser dropped me a text on the way home saying that he would be in Bar Tat (must get the punctuation right on that some day) and was I around? Home, hosed and fed, and with no appetite for watching TV or sitting at the PC, I got royal assent and made tracks down into town.

The pub was crowded and, true to form, he was there and holding forth to two folk I didn't recognise. These turned out to be guys he'd met only the previous week when in with another of the I-M crowd, but the conversation was lively and, as is always the case, apt to take a sudden turn to the left without warning. Did you know, for example, that the Bishop of Bradford used to work out his frustrations by attacking a bramble patch at the end of his garden with a machete, swearing all the time like a submariner with a bad tooth? I didn't, but do now.

The wife of one of these chaps said she thought she knew me from somewhere, but as she is an estate agent and our involvement with the housing market is six-plus years ago, she was either mistaken or has an exceptional memory. The yak-fest continued through the pub quiz and stopped only while the answers were being read out. Suffice to say that the "New Yorkers" - our team name chosen from the legend on my t-shirt - failed to trouble the scorers, but as many of the picture questions were concerned with 'celebrities', of which our collective knowledge was sadly incomplete, that's hardly surprising. Come to think of it, our general knowledge was a bit thin as well...

By this time I'd had enough beer and knew that getting home to bed (via the murderously steep hill out of town) was the best option, so I excused myself and left Fraser & co to it. The ferocious climb was completed in a personal best time and left me gasping for air (and with a pulse of 120 bpm) at the end of it. Lord knows what anyone who heard my graveyard rasps floating out of the darkness thought.

Wednesday 29th April

Isn't it odd how so many of life's little wrinkles, which we all now accept as part of the daily churn, have only come into existence since the advent of the internet? I have done two pieces of business on-line today and neither could be completed without lifting the 'phone and talking to a real person who, on each occasion, turned out to be cheerful, willing to help and ready to share a chuckle.

So, that's Soph and Phez entered for one of the show pony classes at The Great Yorkshire Show in July and four tickets bought for the Rhinos game the following day. The first will be stressful for Soph, who winds herself up to bursting before an event but invariably becomes magnificently composed and focused as soon she nudges her mount into the ring. The rugby is another kettle of testosterone altogether and I suspect her motives (and those of the friend she is bringing with her) are born not out of love for the game but more for the magnificent specimens that take part.

Back to the internet, and the only thing I have left to do is to book Phill's ticket to visit Deb in St Louis in October. Late last night there was an unexpected and pleasant exchange of email with Deb, when the dates were confirmed once and for all.

It'll be a late dinner this evening: Soph and Phill won't get back from the stables until seven-thirty, so with a bit of luck I'll have everything ready by then. There might even be time afterwards to listen to the second half of the Arsenal game - on the internet, of course!

Tuesday 28th April

Missed yesterday's blog because the morning runes, which predicted a lousy day, were bang-on. Awoke gently but then remembered a 7am meeting at work, which sparked a mad-cap dash round the house, shaving in the shower and, finally, putting Phill's lunch as well as my own into my rucksack - something I only discovered at 1pm, with much guilt.

FOIM will never go into detail about work, which has no place here, but the fact that it turned into a bad day was so ill-concealed from Phill that...well, when I got home I had the usual big smile and a hug (she was sitting on the couch), then wandered off alone into the kitchen to make tea. There, waiting for me, was a bottle of Laphroaig fifteen-year-old single malt. A small note, finished with a smiley face, neatly summarised my objections to this extravagance, and finished with the instruction to "shut up and drink it." She came and joined me and we chatted happily for a while.

There are times when I can scarcely believe how lucky I am, but on occasions like this I can't help but recall a moment when we were sitting in Prime Burger, a diner in upper mid-town, New York. The three of us were eating in a recess near the front of the restaurant, where the only other occupant was a neat lady of perhaps seventy years. We exchanged smiles from time to time but otherwise kept to ourselves, enjoying an excellent lunch. The lady finished first, then joined the line for the till that stretched past my right shoulder and down the restaurant. As she passed, she leant down, smiled and said quietly "Sir, you have a lovely family".

Things like that really get your attention, and I remember her words every time the going gets tough.

http://www.primeburger.com/

Sunday 26th April

A clear, blue morning at TEOIM. The trees are almost all in leaf now and our lovely green world is back with us; thank goodness. Although we don't have to cope with the semi-permanent darkness of more northerly lattitiudes the dank awfulness of a sodden British winter, where there is no warmth and dead leaves turn gradually to slush, becomes more difficult to stomach as each year passes. Thinking ahead to our upcoming Spanish holiday - sixteen weeks away - underlines just how short is our summertime. We will step off the 'plane at the end of August, when the season will begin to change.

The last few months have involved a great deal of self-discipline. Having gained weight at an alarming - if not surprising - rate it became clear that it was time to do something about it. Twenty-odd pounds later I can once again fit into clothes last worn a couple of years ago and have a fighting chance of not nauseating the world and his senorita when the trunks go on. That is why this moring's fried egg sandwich (on buttered white bread with the yolk heavily salted) was an exquisite, decadent treat. Don't get me wrong: this is by no means a joyless regime, but pushing the boat out once in a while is appreciated for what it is.

Haven't seen much of Phill today. She drove into Leeds to buy a birthday present for a friend and dropped Soph off at the stables on her way, so I was left to my own devices which, inevitably, involved spending time on the internet looking, amongst other things, at the Wikipedia page dealing with tripe, a northern delicacy and one which I haven't tasted for about forty years. Not difficult to understand why once you know what it is...but the Italians in particular seem to have a fondness for it, which surprised me.

Solitude meant that, for once, I was on my own at 1pm. Why is this special? Well, anyone who knows us understands that Phill and I are usually glued to the TV at this time on grand prix weekends, waiting for the lights to go out and the mad dash to the first corner. This year's new rules have injected much-needed excitement into the races and the driver's table has a topsy-turvy look as a result. Britisher Jenson Button managed another win today - his third in four races - but there is plenty of evidence that the other teams are pushing hard to catch up, so the rest of the season should be at least as interesting as it has been so far.

Phill got back in tome for the second half of the race and, afterwards, once we had collected Soph from the stables, we went and sat for an hour in an almost deserted Bar Tat.

Saturday 25th April

The day began at seven (the legacy of early work-day mornings) with a spell on the computer re-hashing yesterday's blog and having a glance at http://www.ilkley-more.com/, where there isn't much going on.

Mum and dad were coming for dinner, so there was an AM dash to Tesco for the bits and pieces, with an unplanned diversion to Booth's for the main ingredient (lamb shanks) which Tesco didn't have!

The recipe is a one-pot affair, so once it was in the oven and the components for the pud - Eton Mess - were combined, there wasn't much to do. Drove over to Baildon with Phill, picked up M&D (after admiring their new central heating boiler - the old one finally gave up after forty-five years) and brought them back to TEOIM. Mum doesn't drive and dad is less comfortable behind the wheel these days, so we do the chaffeuring.

Dad pronounced himself well pleased with his gin and tonic, made with Spanish gin, then, after the usual last minute scramble to bring everything together hot and on time, we cracked open some wine and sat down to the lamb, which had spent the last couple of hours cooking in a mixture of red wine & balsamic vinegar. It was teriffic, and dad surprised us all by saying that it was the first time in his eighty-plus years that he'd tasted lamb! No wonder he looked nonplussed when we set his plate down. Sophie showed him the way though, reducing her piece to the bone in what seemed like nothing flat!

After the meal we sat and watched a DVD of Sophie's performance with her pony, Phez, at last weekend's Ilkley show, the first of the season. The pair did well and there was much happy chatter.

Dad was worried about Phill having to drive them home in the dark so we set off back to Baildon, where we said our goodbyes. A pleasant, sunny day.

That's three hours we'll never get back!

Having seen only bits of other Nicholas Cage movies I was looking forward to seeing all of "Knowing", his latest effort. Internet reviews were, however, not exactly promising and seemed to indicate (not always politely) that this film is a piece of cheese.

The premise is that a young oddball girl (she hears voices) fills a sheet of paper with apparrently random numbers. This, along with her classmates' more conventional efforts at artwork, is buried in a time capsule in front of her newly-established school. 50 years on, when the capsule is opened, Cage's son acquires the sheet and brings it home.

A stroke of great fortune sees Cage, an MIT scientist and lecturer, recognise that within the apparently random clutch of figures lie clues to the last fifity-years' worth of disasters, their location and number of people killed in each. The fortune comes not in the discovery itself, but that it took place at all, given that he was outside of the best part of half a bottle of scotch when the penny dropped. Equally astonishing, he drives several children to school early the following morning, a few short hours after having been clattered. A little later, similarly soaked, he realises that the left over numbers (whose meaning has so far escaped him) set out upcoming terminal events.

From this point on a fairly unremarkable story unfolds: plenty of bangs, crashes, shouting and running about, all propped up by some rather good special effects, but the last third of the film comes straight out of left field and is left incomplete only by the absence of Chico Marx and his bulb-horn.

There are all sorts of little allegories running round loose here, but they are so light-weight that it is probably only the air-crash sequence (and whoever CGI'd that has spent too much time on You Tube) and some New York subway carnage that earns this film its '15' certificate.

Two-thirds of this film are OK and, despite everything, I'm glad we forked out to see it (but only because it will be interesting to hear the views of colleague, who is going tomorrow).