Lots to celebrate

The magnolias are in blossom and that’s another good sign that Spring really might be here. I walked up the road for a repeat visit to the dental hygienist. Last week, she took care of my bottom

set of teeth and this week, my top teeth were given a deep clean. A deep and very uncomfortable, unpleasant clean. A necessary procedure, I know, if I wish to preserve the gnashers for a few more years, but I’m so glad I remembered to dose myself up on painkillers before the visit.

After picking the children up from school this week, it was nice enough outside to go litter picking, an activity that we’ve been neglecting a bit lately. There’s a lot to pick up, so why they have to haggle over the smallest piece of rubbish on the pavement or in a hedge is beyond me. Still, they did a great job, and the bag left by the litter bin was taken away by the following morning. Martha was especially proud of the old rusty padlock that she found. It’s now time for the Great British Spring Clean, so please join us in a spot of litter picking, and get some fresh air at the same time.

At home, Liesel cooked us all a lovely, spicy, Indian meal. William and I played hangman and both children made something that will be a surprise for someone special sometime soon.

Some days are like dominoes. One topples over then another then something else goes wrong and then something else and oh my goodness, no wonder I’m drinking wine out of a pint glass. Cheers!

Neither wife nor mother-in-law joined me on the walk this morning, which may have been a blessing in disguise. Nobody was sitting on the other side of the table from me in the coffee shop, so nobody was drownded by the cup of decaff latté that I knocked over. The barista, who was new to the establishment, was very good about it and cleaned up my mess. My replacement drink was nice and I was very careful not to twitch, jerk or make any other sudden movements.

Liesel has booked a weekend away for the end of the month, which is great, but at first I was a bit miffed that we would miss seeing Maisie Adam perform just up the road at Boxx2Boxx. I very sheepishly had to ask if they’d take the tickets back.

At home, Liesel pointed out the funny noise being emitted by the soundbar every 50 seconds or so. A bit like the noise loudspeakers used to make when a call was coming into a mobile phone on the O2 network. A quick investigation revealed that the strange noise would appear whether the TV was on or not, and when the soundbar was playing sounds via Bluetooth. Looking at the internet for help, the next step would be to get in touch with the supplier. I suspect the soundbar is probably out of guarantee by one day. Sod’s law.

John Lewis sent a message with a two-hour window for installation of the new dishwasher. The engineers arrived, very professional and friendly. But full of bad news. First, our current dishwasher has been connected to the hot water supply and it shouldn’t have been. If they disconnect the hose from that pipe, it will probably leak. So, before installing the new machine, that pipe needs to be capped off and these guys couldn’t do that: we’d need a real plumber.

Then, on closer inspection, they couldn’t install the new machine anyway because it needs to be a ‘top-fitting’ appliance, not ‘side-fitting’, otherwise the wooden door that is fitted to the front would be in the wrong place. Or something. We’d have to order a different model. I called a plumber and waited for him to return the call: he is someone we’ve used before so I hope he’s still in business.

Liesel and Leslie were out at this point, enjoying coffee with the ladies of the WI, and I dreaded giving Liesel the bad news: no new dishwasher.

So I revisited the soundbar. Run out of ideas. I unplugged the whole lot: soundbar, TV, Freeview box and internet router. The strange sound was still being made. Uh? I followed my ears. It was the old Simon game, on the floor, beneath all the aforementioned electronic devices. Liesel had brought it back from Alaska some time ago, thinking Martha and William would enjoy playing it. But it needed new batteries, two different sizes and we only had one. Well, I now remembered that the previous night, Martha showed interest in it, and I think she must have left the switch ‘on’, even though that didn’t provide full functionality. And Simon has been beeping, tweeting ever since. Well, that was an easy fix in the end, but what a fiasco.

Feeling peeved about the dishwasher yet relieved that I’d resolved one issue, I poured myself a half pint of wine. Then I opened a birthday parcel early thinking it might be chocolate, purely for medicinal purposes of course. But instead it was whisky, a welcome gift from Pauline and Andrew, which I shall indulge in very soon. Not on top of all the vino, though.

We binge-watched a drama on TV called Protection. About halfway through the third episode, I realised it wasn’t about family planning, after all. It was most enjoyable, though.

The plumber never called back, so I got in touch with another one. He agreed to come over later that afternoon. He made the necessary changes to the various connections, hoses and pipes under the kitchen sink.

So, how’s the new dishwasher? Nobody else at John Lewis can see why the machine that we ordered can’t be installed. We even drove over to John Lewis in the Trafford Centre to speak to an expert, and he didn’t have a scooby either.

It was dark by the time we left, after eating at Tampopo for the first time in many years. Liesel’s been on the phone to customer services, left on hold for ages while they investgate, but today, five days later, we still have no dishwasher.

The Friday walk took us through Painswick Park as usual, but what was unusual was seeing a coot out of the water.

A few years ago, I enjoyed re-reading Charles Dickens’ David Copperfield. Recently I have been plodding and slogging my way through a modern day take on the tale, Demon Copperhead by Barbara Kingsolver. My review, for what it’s worth: it’s too long and it’s nowhere near as funny. I’m sure there are many American cultural references that I missed out on, but I just kept saying, ‘get on with it’ and ‘OK, I get the message.’ There’s an opioid addiction problem in the United States, I get that, but I found it depressing to read that much about it.

More TV: we watched the new film Conclave from the comfort of our own home. It was good, interesting, entertaining but, suddenly, was that it? It was over. Compared with a six-part TV drama, it was very short. No spoilers, but we’d like to see Part 2 in which we see how the newly elected Pope gets on.

It was a dark and stormy night in March, 1955. Mount Alvernia Hospital, Guildford. A woman was in pain and being helped by a Sister Frances to give birth to a bouncing 7 lb 8 oz baby boy at quarter to three in the morning. The baby’s cries were audible even above the thunderstorm raging outside. The woman’s name was Betty. She and her husband bestowed the names Michael David on the infant. Michael: no idea where that came from. David: that was the father’s name. Yes, it was me! And this weekend, I celebrated my 70th birthday.

Liesel had an appointment in Manchester so while waiting, Leslie and I visited the Whitworth Gallery and wandered around the exhibition, JMW Turner: in Light and Shade. The exhibition pairs Turner’s evocative Liber prints with a series of his watercolours from the Whitworth’s own collection, as well as loaned works from public and private collections. As invited, we explored Turner’s artistic legacy and the significance of his prints. Etchings, mezzotints, the prints were all quite small and monochrome, but the watercolours were easier on the eye. I was pleased to see that JMW Turner visited Guildford, where I was brought up, at least once.

We drove home via La Chouquette where I picked up a loaf of bread and a chocolate-based birthday cake. Back at home, I opened my cards and a couple of pressies. Chocolate, chocolate and chocolate! Not complaining at all!

We drove to the restaurant Delhi Dream in Cheadle and met up with Jenny, Liam, Martha and William for a big family celebration. Martha had brought the helium balloon with my latest age upon it, not at all embarrassing.

We had a lovely meal, lots of food, almost too much. And the waiter realising it was my special day, gave me a bowl of ice cream with some cherries. I struggled even to eat the ice cream, that’s how full I was.

Back at Jenny’s, I was presented with a cake baked and decorated by the grandchildren. Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to determine which is the shop-bought and which is the home-baked cake. No prizes, just for fun, as they say!

It took a while, but things settled down and I was able to enjoy a slice of each of the cakes with a cup of tea. It was difficult to move for the rest of the day, but worth it.

Martha and William were more excited about my birthday than I was, I think. No children were harmed in the demonstration of their kick-boxing skills.

So another year older, not that I feel it really, I still alternate between 70 (now), 29 and 14.

If you require details of my new cake, chocolate and whisky diet, just let me know.