Boat trip; assorted London trips; Hoppa Bag Crisis

Set off on Saturday 13^th for our eagerly anticipated boat trip down the Thames (photos here). Ruth and I arrived at the marina laden with food and wine which we piled onto a trolley and then wheeled noisily down the pontoon. Ray extricated us from his berth surprisingly smoothly and then we were off for a lovely meander down the river and, from Shiplake onwards, a nice rubberneck at posh riverside properties, which is always fun. We lunched on the move on pasties and gazpacho – I thought this an acceptable if probably little-known combination, though Ruth spurned the gazpacho, being of the “Eeuww it’s cold” mentality when it comes to soup. We found the river surprisingly quiet on the Saturday, at least as far as Marsh Lock, just upstream of Henley and a popular spot for a stroll, when I looked up with a mouthful of pasty to discover we had an audience of people apparently entranced by the sight of boats going through locks. A big cruiser was beckoned into the lock by the lockkeeper after us and I was interested to see how keen they are to give narrowboats a wide berth (that whole fibreglass vs. several tons of steel thing). The weather stayed OK and we eventually moored up just short of Bourne End, sometime after 5pm. Had a brief token stroll to stretch legs and spent a pleasant evening eating and drinking.

Sunday was a bit busier and more eventful. Enjoyed the meander back towards Marlow, snapping several of the grand houses sited high above the river on the south side, including one whose riverside lawn Ray apparently maintains – as the main part of the garden looked an almost sheer drop from the house I’ve no idea how they get the necessary machinery down there. Things became more eventful at Marlow lock, the deepest lock on our trip at a drop of 7’ 1”; the others ranged from Sonning at 5’ 4” to Hurley at a piddling 3’ 5”. Hardly worth it really. Once we were secured in at Marlow, a barge alongside us and at least one cruiser behind, Ruth was warned to hold tight to the rope as the sluice gates were opened as apparently “things can get a bit rough”. Things did indeed, with a rush of quite impressive white water; as we were preparing to leave the lockkeeper saw fit to tell us that Marlow’s the roughest sluice on the Thames. How exciting.

Not long out of Marlow lock and heading downstream towards the suspension bridge, we noted a couple of rowers ahead of us, one of whom inexplicably decided to row towards us as we drew closer. The inevitable happened and yes, it upset her more than us. She was duly retrieved by the guy in charge of the rowing who dragged her off to the side of the river for, hopefully, a bit of a stern chat.

While waiting at Hurley we were hailed by Ray’s current employer Laurence, who owns a Venetian water taxi moored at Freebody’s cute boatyard. They followed us upstream as far as Henley, where we moored up and Ray went to have a cup of tea with them, while Ruth and I nipped into the River & Rowing Museum to see whether the café was still as nice as it was during those mornings eight years ago when I was supposed to be writing my thesis. We had a pleasant lunch and then set off again, finally arriving back at the marina around 6pm. Very civilised.

Discovered from Judith this week that she and her daughter had apparently taken part in an open water swimming contest at Marlow the weekend following our trip. We did see a few women in wetsuits in the river near Bourne End on the Saturday – my initial conclusion was that they were just mad, but with hindsight perhaps they were practising.

Spent 15-17 August on a SAS course at StayAhead Training, around the corner from Barbican tube. Ruth and I travelled in together on the Monday and had breakfast in the Central Café, just opposite the Shelter Building where her offices are. Returned to the café on Day 3 of the course to meet Hannah for more coffee and pains au chocolat – had ordered two of the latter intending one to be for her, but as she is of the (odd, obviously) breed of people who claim not to be able to consume food before about 11am, I ended up eating most of both, so should probably curb the pastry for a bit. The course itself was a bit too intensive for my liking, though I guess I should take comfort from the fact that it was intended for people with at least six months’ SAS programming experience. People in the office had commiserated with me for not managing to book onto a course at the SAS headquarters near Marlow, as apparently you get a good spread at lunch there. We didn’t get lunch at the London site but we did get issued daily with a quite generous £10 of Luncheon Vouchers (hadn’t known these still existed) – bought Ruth lunch with them on two of the days and used the rest up on grocery shopping in Waitrose.

Ruth and I went for a birthday meal on Tuesday evening at Café Rouge, where we had a surprisingly poor steak. Salad and fries were nice though. Had booked the Thursday and Friday as leave - on the Thursday, met Ray early for a divine-as-ever coffee and bacon sandwich at Julia’s Meadow then went for a quick browse around the shops which, inexplicably, resulted in my arriving back at the house laden with bags. On the Friday, Ruth and I took the train up to London and visited the BP Portrait Award 2011 exhibition at the National Portrait Gallery. After a brief lunch we wandered over to Covent Garden, where we spent a short while aimlessly mooching before both acknowledging that neither of us likes it much (too crowded and touristy). We wandered on and, completely unplanned, came across the Aram Store on Drury Lane, exclusive sellers of various iconic pieces of furniture including Jacobsen's Swan and Egg chairs. We drooled for a while and Ruth used their toilets. We then walked a way down Holborn to visit the little church of St Etheldreda in Ely Place, the oldest Roman Catholic church in London (it was taken over by the Church of England after the Reformation, but returned to the Old Faith in the nineteenth century). Afterwards, we had an early dinner at Garfunkel's¹ and an expensive drink in the Old Shades on Whitehall before going to see Max Stafford-Clark's production of Caryl Churchill's 'Top Girls' at Trafalgar Studios.

As of today, the Hoppa Bag crisis is continuing. Ruth filled three of these several weekends ago with soil and rubble resulting from digging out a large trench in the garden prior to getting some hard landscaping done. Although they are blocking the entrance to the garage, she imagined that they would be speedily collected before I next wanted to park the car in it, as previously Mr Hoppa has always been round promptly to collect the bags. On this occasion, however, despite assuring Ruth that he would be quite able to collect them from the lane at the back of the property, he has still not been to collect them despite repeated chasing. I fear they are going to have to be collected via other means – though I don’t know at the moment quite what those are going to be.

¹ Hadn't been to one of these in about 20 years. The formerly quite special salad bar didn't look to be what it used to be, so I played it safe with spicy chicken wings and garlic bread.

Visiting mother; haunted Little Chefs; ancestor-hunting

Mum arrived on Thursday to inspect my new place and to pay a first visit to Milton Keynes. Dad’s business partner Steve kindly dropped her at the OU on his way home to Norfolk from my parents’ place, though I think Mum was a bit disappointed at missing her planned tootle on the train up to Birmingham and down again. We went for dinner at The Plough in the evening, where the normally sulky waitress appeared to have undergone a bit of a customer service course as she was positively polite. The following morning I left Mum my house keys and A-Z so that she could have a bit of a mooch around the locale, which she evidently did, arriving on campus around midday to meet me for lunch in The Hub, where she got to meet a few of my colleagues including my line manager Judith who is from Swansea and whose late mother apparently studied geology at the university there, which provided talking points.

After lunch we set off to drive back to my parents’ house for the weekend – I had tried to pick a reasonably direct-looking route, which proved actually quite difficult – getting across the country without either going up to Birmingham or down to the M4 involves taking a series of A roads and proceeding across country in an intriguingly zigzag fashion. We drove down past Bicester intending to join the A40 at Witney, but missed the turn and ended up joining it at Burford, where we stopped at the Little Chef for tea and cake. The Little Chef on the A40 at Burford is housed in a former barn and according to this article from 2008, there have been a number of paranormal events witnessed there, including the sighting of a monk and ‘mild poltergeist phenomena’. The latter must be quite a good get-out for any waiting staff who’ve just dropped three Olympic Breakfasts on the floor. “They just leapt out of my hands ...” Mum does indeed look slightly ghostly in this photo, but it might have been the just-out-of-the-freezer lemon drizzle cake.

On the Saturday Mum, Dad and I drove over to Walterstone where we parked at the pretty Carpenters Arms and walked across some fields to the former Oldcastle church, where Mum was hoping to be able to scour the churchyard for an ancestor. The church itself has been converted into a private house, but we had assumed this might have been separated off from the graveyard, but the entire churchyard now appeared to form part of the garden, so we couldn’t get in. Mum spoke to Vera back at the pub who reckoned that the owners would be amenable to letting people have a poke about, so I think she’s going to go back sometime. In the evening we attempted to have a barbecue, which involved Dad in a lot of manfully fanning the coals until they showed some signs of life; we ended up eating indoors in deference to the quite cool weather. I drove back to MK on the Sunday via the M50-M5-M42-M40 route, which despite looking a lot less direct from the road atlas, was actually quicker.

HEFCW; school; domestics

Got to pay a flying visit to Cardiff last Thursday to attend a data workshop at the Higher Education Funding Council for Wales, aka HEFCW (pronounced, cutely, heff-KOOOO, as opposed to heff-KEEEE). Managed to persuade our office manager Sara to book me a train ticket from Reading instead of Milton Keynes so that I could attend the July Book Group meeting in the evening – which she did, though I had to agree to be tied to a specific morning train in order to make it equal-to-or-cheaper than going from Milton Keynes (them being the rules) – a bit of a mystery, as the journey from MK takes considerably longer, but who can fathom the logic of train fares. Met my colleague Emily at Cardiff Central and we had one of those freakish coincidence moments during the taxi journey to HEFCW’s offices in Llanishen when we discovered that not only is Emily originally from Newbury but that we had attended the same secondary school. Not at the same time, as Emily’s the best part of ten years younger, but we remembered some of the same staff especially as Emily had also studied music.

St Bart’s website now has an image of the extravagant new school building erected as part of the 'Ad Lucem' project. Not meaning to speak out of turn, but West Berkshire Council’s decision to award around £32 million of central government money to St Bart’s, via the Building Schools for the Future programme, seems to me a highly dubious decision when the school was already in possession of two attractive and historic school buildings (see pic of the Wormestall building right, taken by me in the late 1980s) and, more importantly, when it was apparently chosen over both Kennet School and the John O’Gaunt School in Hungerford, both of which draw from a less affluent area than St Bart’s and were almost certainly far more in need of an injection of cash to rebuild their premises. Makes you wonder what these decisions are actually based on.

Returning to the HEFCW meeting: this was enlivened by the presence of a video link to a roomful of people in Llandudno that was plagued by dodgy acoustics for the morning session: evidently the Llandudno contingent could hardly hear the speakers in the room in Cardiff, whereas every muttered aside in the Llandudno room was amplified many times into the Cardiff room. As there were a number of muttered asides, mostly along the lines of "I can't bl**dy hear her, can you?", this led to some amusement. When we reconvened after lunch they had all gone, though the video link was still running on an empty meeting room. Surreal.

We met at Claire M’s house in the evening to discuss Philip Roth’s Pulitzer Prize-winning novel American Pastoral, which I had kind of enjoyed but was left with the sense that I hadn’t quite got all the intended meaning – e.g. of the lengthy descriptions of the glove industry and Mr Levov Sr’s dull ramblings about how a woman never used to go out without a pair of gloves. Will perhaps re-read at some later date. We congratulated Lesley on her new job and welcomed new member Alison, a choir friend of Claire M’s. Our next book is Alison’s choice, Barbara Kingsolver’s The Lacuna, which I had better get started on soon as it’s apparently c.600 pages long.

Had quietly domestic weekend at the house. Ruth and I did a few useful jobs in town on Saturday morning including a trip to West Tailoring on the Oxford Road, a one-room concern above a Polish grocer’s that’s unfeasibly crammed with sewing machines, piles of clothes and men barely visible above piles of clothes. They were recommended to me a few years ago by a woman in Sketchley as being cheaper than them for repair jobs – rather nice of her, I thought, but perhaps she’d just been given a month’s notice that morning. While waiting for West’s to re-hem my trousers, we went for a drink in what used to be the Renaissance Hotel, and before that the Ramada, but is now part of the German chain pentahotels. The main lobby and bar area (see sneaky pic left) have been altered out of all recognition, substantially for the better, and are now dead smart with exposed concrete and modern art dotted around. We did a bit of shopping for work clothes; Ruth did actually buy some skirts but I didn’t find anything I liked, though that was probably due to sulking at recently-gained excess poundage. To help with that, we went for lunch and I bought an expensive non-work top in East. Did a few more useful jobs on Sunday including fitting a replacement fuse in my car's cigarette lighter - dead proud of our car maintenance skills on that one, though I have to say they were mainly Ruth's; my chief input was driving to Halfords and buying the fuse. In the afternoon I did some PC tasks that I'd been putting off during the week because of dodgy mobile broadband at the MK flat, and Ruth dug a big hole in the garden. Domestic blissitude.

Wednesday 27 July 2011

Weddings 2 and 3

Easthampstead Park

Saturday 16^th dawned sodden for Gail and Rob’s wedding and it proceeded to pour for most of the morning. Drove to the station to collect Ruth’s godmother, a retired architect living in Chichester, and proceeded in pouring rain to St Catherine’s Church, Bearwood, where the rain briefly left off and Mrs Millard cunningly collared the photographer to take a few photos of us outside the church. Service was OK as church weddings go (a big qualifier there), though the ushers should have sat people better: there weren’t enough guests to fill the space in the church and the first three rows, for some reason marked ‘Reserved’, ended up having only Mrs Millard and one bridesmaid sitting in them. Ruth read I Corinthians 13, though she was spitting feathers at having to read the English Standard Version rather than the King James and hence not getting to say ‘sounding brass’.

The reception was held at Easthampstead Park, a Victorian mansion near Wokingham that’s now used as a conference centre – it isn’t a hotel but does provide accommodation for weddings and other functions. I was pleased to see Mrs Millard’s quartet of lovely bell-ringing friends from our Christmas lunch in Norfolk, and also met Ruth’s godfather Nick, an ebullient long-haired character who was apparently briefly tour manager for the Sisters of Mercy, and his pleasant-seeming partner. Was surprised to see Ruth enthusiastically taking to the dance floor in the evening but she may have had a bit¹ to drink. There’s some video footage, but I’m too kind to publish it anywhere.

Me and Ali

Ray came up after work on Thursday after what had apparently been a knackering day’s concreting, and we tried out the restaurant at The Plough – quite nice. He departed up the river on Saturday with Maurice, a friend from the marina, who is relocating to a marina up in Derbyshire – the planned route was up the Thames to Oxford and then north on the Oxford Canal; don’t know where after that. Ray was intending to go with him as far as they got in four days or so, then get the train back to Reading.

Continuing the unusual, for me, frenzy of wedding-related activity, Ali, Claire and I drove down to Frome on the morning of Saturday 23^rd to attend an evening wedding reception. Sarah, the youngest member of our Book Group, had married her boyfriend Tim earlier that day at a church near her parents’ home and the address of the evening reception was charmingly given as ‘Grandad’s Field’. After a bit of last-minute panicking, Ali had booked us into the George Hotel right in the centre of Frome, a slightly shabby old hotel but a good location. Had a lovely lunch at the Black Swan Arts centre and a wander around Frome which is a pretty old town and makes much of apparently having been “the Bath before Bath was discovered”, or some such. In the evening we took a taxi out to Grandad's Field and met up with Helen and Lesley, who had been at the wedding, though apparently they had got lost en route and only just made it. There was barn dancing, though only Claire indulged out of our group. Lesley was righteously indignant at having walked onto the floor with a woman earlier only to have the compere immediately shout "right, we need two more men". Barn dancing's obviously a strictly hetero affair.

Ali evidently shares Ray's approach to driving somewhere new, which I admire though could never emulate; it consists roughly of not consulting a map beforehand but setting off in the approximate direction of your destination and relying on seeing the place you're trying to reach pop up on a road sign at some point. Assuming you're not in a big hurry, it is actually quite relaxing, though I'm not nearly laid-back enough to do it myself.

Got back to Reading around midday on Sunday and was forced to admire the flower that has appeared on the vile cardoon (henceforth TVC). Here's a picture of it.

¹ A lot.

Newbury; trek into town; farewell to Progress South Central

My car seems to be attracting local cats – have left the house a number of times recently to find a cat sleeping by/under it.

Went over to Newbury on Saturday 2^nd, once we had taken delivery of Ruth’s season ticket (a whole saga attached there), officially to purchase some Arthur Price cutlery from Camp Hopson to form a wedding gift for Gail. On arrival we discovered that they had no pastry forks (the desired item) in stock – personally I don’t think I’ve ever used, or indeed seen, a pastry fork, but evidently they were on Gail’s wish list. I suggested a set of cream horn moulds as staying within a Victorian theme, but this idea was spurned. I bought a small bin for my new bathroom in the clearance sale, so all was not lost.

Ruth’s family evidently has a long history of shopping at Camps – her aunt has an account there and apparently she remembers going there with her grandmother during summer holidays; Granny apparently thought nothing of parking outside the front of the store in the Daimler – or, apparently, sometimes in the Chairman’s reserved parking space. The store has had such a comprehensive makeover that it’s barely recognisable from how I remember it looking as a child, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing – though it seems a shame to lose the big Lego man I remember being on the stairs on the way to the toy department. Indeed, I think the toy department’s gone.

We had a lovely steak frites at Brasserie Gérard, which has replaced Beynons in the Market Place – I believe they are a chain, though I’ve never eaten at one before. One of the best steaks I’ve ever had though – will definitely try them again. Ruth bought a cauliflower at the market and exclaimed for a while over its cheapness and plumpness and rhapsodised for a while about the civilisedness of having a decent markets to shop at. Not living anywhere near one I didn’t really contribute to this – Christ knows where there is one in MK, and the regular market in Reading is a cheap-and-cheerful affair selling knocked off mobile phone covers round the back of the also-cheap-and-cheerful Broad Street Mall. Nice idea though. Spent a pleasant evening in the garden where Ruth did some tidying up of the vine and we burned some stuff in the chimenea, including whatever caused this slightly scary sheet of flame.

Another barrier to empowerment broken on Sunday morning when I drove us to the tip (actually, the Smallmead Household Waste Recycling Centre) to dump a bath panel, various pieces of plasterboard, a pile of old paint pots and assorted bits and pieces of rusty metalwork. What catharsis.

Got to travel to Cheltenham on Tuesday 5^th for a training day at HESA. I think I drove through Cheltenham once but have never been there otherwise, so was hoping for more of a chance of a poke about, but in the event we only got half an hour for lunch and it was raining. It has an enormous branch of Waitrose, though; I popped in briefly on my way back to the station for some of Loacker’s divine chocolate wafers. Walked from the station to the town centre along the Honeybourne Line, formerly the railway line connecting Cheltenham with Honeybourne, and now turned into a foot/cycle path. Honeybourne station itself still exists in a reduced form as a stop on the Cotswold Line between Oxford and Hereford. According to this, it was closed in 1969 but then opened again in 1985 - seems quite a coup.

On the recommendation of someone at the OU, the lovely Sam (aka ‘Mr Bike’) of MBRS UK Ltd came round to the house after work on the evening of the 6th and gave my little-used bike a service. Seemed a real bike enthusiast. Said that the best thing for the bike would probably be if it had some mileage put on it. Cheek.

Decided to spend the weekend of the 10^th and 11^th up in MK, partly because I wanted to try out the bike. Apart from a brief go at Center Parcs two years ago, I hadn’t cycled for about 12 years so was anticipating being distinctly rusty. Went out early on the Saturday morning with the idea of meeting as few people as possible and rode around for half an hour or so. Certainly have some way to go in terms of increasing fitness. Donned new gardening gloves later that morning to pull up the assortment of withered thistles and stuff them into my green waste caddy. Put down some pearl spar and an orby thing purchased from Homebase. That’s my quota of gardening work for the next month or so.

As part of the grand plan of taking more exercise, decided to see how long it would take me to walk in to Central MK. A long time, is the answer - picked what I imagined from the map would be the most attractive route, up the canal and then across Campbell Park; walking through the estates would probably have been more direct but given the recent shootings in Fishermead I thought I'd give that one a miss. Pleasant, if long, walk – the canal has a number of cute little old bridges, now all footbridges, and I saw some baby moorhens, one of whom approached me squawking insistently and was no doubt indignant that I had nothing to give it. Eventually arrived on Midsummer Boulevard about an hour and a quarter after setting out from Simpson. Called into the MK Gallery to see the 'New Art MK' exhibition of emerging artistic talent from the local area, including one chap labelled as ‘the self-styled king of contemporary embroidery’, who works through the medium of cross-stitch. Then went off to John Lewis for a cup of tea. Got the bus back ...

On the Sunday went for a stroll around Caldecotte Lake, just south of Simpson, as this looked a potential place to cycle. Indeed there were a number of people on bikes and a whole host of cycle paths, so I returned on the bike after work on Monday.

Returned to Reading yesterday for Progress South Central’s ‘farewell event’, organised by the LLN’s three remaining staff, though a number of former staff were in attendance, as well as a number of other people who have worked with the LLN over the last few years. Ann said a few words, then Richard Messer, Director of Academic Services, toasted Fay and Ann, then we had lunch. Not having any other pressing engagements I helped clear up and went back to the TOB with Ann, Paul and Godfrey for a cup of tea. The website is going to stay online until 2013 as a record of the LLN's work and Ann tells me the final Annual Report is due any day, so I await my copy.

Musings re neighbour; wedding; Teddy

Have had cynical suspicions over the last few weeks that my MK neighbour Fraser may be dealing, as have seen an assortment of lone men knocking on his door, some of whom don’t look likely to be close friends of his (though this may reflect an overly cynical assumption that toothless skinhead white men in their fifties (viz, Fraser) do not usually form close friendships with young black men in their early twenties – I could be wrong though). On the up side, he is quiet, and says good morning politely whenever we meet – and, blessedly, so far shows no sign of Norman-esque nosiness.

Drove down to The Stonemill at Rockfield last Friday for Dave and Hazel’s wedding on the Saturday. As it was pouring with rain when we arrived in Monmouth I wasn’t optimistic about Saturday’s weather, but as it happened it stayed dry, though not overly sunny. Greeted a number of extended family members and parental friends, some of whom I hadn’t seen for some time. The ceremony itself was held in the Stonemill restaurant, a converted 16th century barn – atmospheric if rather cosy; I almost had to resort to shunting Dave and Hazel out of the way in order to find a space to do my reading – while the wedding breakfast was held in a marquee in the grounds. Ray’s usher duties extended themselves into a certain amount of ‘master of ceremonies’ duties due to the unfortunate absence of Dave’s best man Doug. Very superior food for a wedding breakfast; most I have attended play it safe with bland offerings unlikely to offend anyone, usually melon followed by chicken breast in some sort of inoffensive sauce. Mum persuaded (= forced) Dad to have a bit of a dance at the evening’s ceilidh, while the rest of us took advantage of the photo booth to be a bit silly – especially Ruth, who has evidently popped up subsequently in a few photographs with complete strangers. Ruth and I had to make our way back on the Sunday morning in deference to her starting new job on Monday, but evidently Sunday turned out to be the best weather of the weekend for those who had stayed on for the Sunday barbecue.

My reading of The Song of Wandering Aengus gave me an opportunity to actually use the compendium of Yeats' poetry that I was given many years ago, but that has been lingering among sundry other books acquired mainly to show visitors how clever I am, including a Nietzsche reader, a book of German verse and a copy of Homer's Iliad in the original Greek.

Attended a lunchtime meditation session yesterday courtesy of the OU’s Mind Body Spirit club. Hadn’t been to a meditation class since my experience with the ghastly Anya of Meditation UK a year or so ago and was pleasantly surprised by this one, which was of the silent focus-on-the-breath type that I prefer. The usual class leader was absent so it was led by a woman named Panayiota, who also appears to be giving some sort of nutrition lecture one lunchtime next week, which I may or may not attend.

Have been forced (using the term loosely) to perform some emergency surgery on my ancient teddy bear, as the felt covering his ears had perished and his original threadbare ears were dangerously on show. As I only had white felt, he now has new white ears, which I feel he is extremely pleased with. See 'before' and 'after' shots. The whole process was met with a certain amount of derision from Ruth who told me I should get out more. Some people have no heart.

Locale; weekend in MK; weeds

Have now completed two weeks in so far quite agreeable new job. Walk to work involves a pleasant meander across Ouzel Valley Park (left), though I might be looking for a slightly better-lit meander come the winter months. The Ouzel is a surprisingly pretty river where I stopped to watch these cygnets last Friday evening.

Thanks to my line manager Judith, have located a cashpoint and a Tesco Express close to the flat, after initially thinking that there was nowhere that wasn’t a car drive away. It just involves nipping under the walkway under Groveway (H9, for those interested in MK grid roads) into the neighbouring suburb of Tinkers Bridge. A bit scruffy but useful to know about.

Ray drove up after work last Thursday for a visit and we went for a brief walk down the canal, before popping into The Plough for a drink. Toyed with the idea of having dinner there, but we unfortunately timed it badly and ended up arriving just behind a party of about 30 people with OU badges (a summer school?) who had evidently pre-ordered their dinners.

Travel stress on Friday evening when I drove to the station to collect Ruth from the London train in pouring rain and heavy traffic. Hadn’t managed to locate a car park close to the station, although presumably there is one, so ended up parking in one of the 15-minute only waiting bays at the front of the station, where I rang Ruth’s mobile circa 20 times without success – later learned that she had been standing packed in like a sardine and apparently couldn’t easily access her phone. Had to leave waiting bay; circled station a couple more times before locating long-stay car park at the back. Parked. Learned that minimum parking charge was £8.50. Left long-stay car park accompanied by restrained amount of cursing. Phoned Ruth and discovered train had just arrived. Headed back towards front of station; joined huge traffic jam trying to access station to pick up loved ones, etc. Illegally phoned Ruth from car (though stationary) inviting her to just come and meet me in the queue. A few minutes later she appeared out of the rain looking vaguely Heathcliff-like and got in.

On Saturday morning we caught the bus into Central Milton Keynes (or, as it appears to be known locally, ‘CMK’) to discover its delights. Meandered through shopping centre visiting assorted shops. Found the legendary concrete cows on temporary display at one end (I think usually they’re located beside one of the grid roads at the north end of town). Ruth failed to find wedding shoes, though we visited what must have been all the shoe shops in the centre (apart from the cheap places, obviously), but thankfully she had finally located a dress while shopping with Helen the day before. Stopped for lunch in The Place to Eat at John Lewis, which was a bit middle-aged of us but then it’s nice to take the weight off your feet.

On Sunday we went to Bletchley Park, which is more or less the nearest thing to where I’m living that might be classed as a tourist attraction. I think we went expecting Chatsworth-style glossiness, but hardly – despite the £12 per adult entry fee (plus £3 to park your car), it gives the impression of still being a project in development. We wandered over to visit Colossus – the National Museum of Computing is unfortunately timed-entry only on Sundays, so we passed, but it does sound quite interesting. Browsed around the rooms in the mansion that are open; then went for refreshments at the unassuming Hut 4 café before wandering back to the main exhibition in Block B (where, with hindsight, we should probably have started). Some interesting stuff there about wartime living. LOTS of detail about the Enigma and the whole code-cracking shenanigans, which I must confess to not really knowing much about.

Before leaving, Ruth squirted Resolva over the thistles and other weeds in my courtyard garden area which have really shot up in the recent rain. Suppose I should bear in mind that I am supposed to keep garden tidy. She claims that they’ll die off in a few days but if not to nuke them again.