Up, up and away

I have never understood the thinking behind the early morning pint (or similar) at an airport before getting on a plane to parts foreign.

The issue raised its head earlier this month when Mrs WeeKeef and I escaped the miserable cold and damp that has been the British spring of 2024, and instead had a few days in some lovely warm sunshine (26degC) in southern Italy. Naples to be precise.

Our trip started with a 4.30am taxi ride to the airport where, for once, we were travelling light and the security systems were all working splendidly. The result was that we found ourselves lurking in Departures with a comfortable 45 minutes until boarding and the issue of what to do next. For us it is a familiar pattern: first, buy water for the journey; second, nip to the loo (unrelated); and third, get a coffee.

Easy, relaxing and uncontroversial.

And it gives us a little time to watch the world go by: a favourite pastime of mine in airports, you may recall. Inevitably we end up marvelling at the fact that, despite the early hour, all of the bars are full of people downing some alcoholic beverage or other. There is a strange thing that happens to many people in airports which convinces them that it is perfectly fine to “get a start” on the holiday, no matter the time of day.

But it’s not fine. It really isn’t. It’s five o’clock in the morning and you have a pint in each hand and a determined look on your face which says you are going to enjoy this no matter what. The vast majority of those people would never begin to contemplate drinking at this time, and rightly so. If nothing else, an airport departure lounge is not “on holiday”. It’s a nightmare of queueing, official documentation and second thoughts about whether a 6am flight was really a good idea in the first place. And then you’ve got tiny seats, in-flight upselling and immigration to cope with.

Certainly the man who I spotted sitting in a crowded Wetherspoons, nursing a half empty pint glass, staring over his lady companion’s head into the middle distance and looking miserable as sin did not seem to be enjoying his holiday so far.

Relax people. Have a hot beverage. Maybe a bacon sandwich. Good times are coming.

Anyway, I will tell you more about our trip, and others, in a while. In the meantime, here is a photo I took on the flight home.

What? It was after midday. Italy time!

The Rarebit

Anyone paying any attention to this nonsense might be wondering what I meant by new roles and new names at the end of my last epistle. Well, ladies and gentlemen, it’s all about the circle of life.

Of course we are not yet anywhere near getting over the sadness of recent weeks. But then, in the wee small hours of last weekend, Boy 2 (of 3) rushed the Welsh Girl to hospital where, some very few minutes after arrival, the aforementioned wonderful daughter-in-law produced the most beautiful baby girl you ever did see.

To coin a (para)phrase, we are a Grandfather and it is the most joyful thing. Today Mrs WeeKeef and I trundled up the road to meet this new miracle. The parents are happy, a bit gob-smacked and totally doing brilliantly. The dogs (they have two) have calmed way down and are gentle and watchful, making sure we knew what we were doing before letting us out of their sight. And baby girl was sleepy, well fed and looking awfully contented. It’s a good start and, having got my hands on her I only gave Mrs WK a turn reluctantly.

And so we have a new family member. A new player in this ongoing annal, and we need a name for her. Well, that’s easy: she is precious, one of a kind, and a bit Welsh. Friends, readers, people who have stumbled here by accident, please welcome The Rarebit to the world, and to forty-nine + one up. She shall no doubt make regular appearances.

And that’s it. That’s the big news. Nothing more profound to say – babies, I find, are quite profound enough without any help from the likes of me.

And anyway, I can’t type anymore just now. I’m totes emosh.

The Last of the Crumblies

When I started doing this blog thing almost 15 years ago I had no idea what it should be, but I never envisaged it becoming a funeral procession. Or, to be slightly more accurate, a procession of funerals. And yet over the years we have successively said goodbye to the Pater, Auntie M and the Mater.

So it was with a sense of inevitable familiarity that we put on our sombre clothes and walked into a rainy crematorium to say a final goodbye to my lovely Ma-in-Law yesterday. But we were not too sombre, because the lady in question was remarkable in many ways, not least because of the joy she took in so many things in her life – family, friends, the theatre and cinema, good music, good food and a glass or two of something sparkling. Yesterday was about recalling good memories, and putting aside the last four years of her life which were so very different after her stroke.

For myself, I will always remember our Xmas Eve routine with a smile. Much as we both love Mrs WeeKeef to bits, my spouse is not a person to be stuck with in a queue and so, each 24th December, we would wave her off to work and then head out to do some last minute browsing together. In truth we rarely needed to get anything, but we took the opportunity to stock up with exactly that – things we didn’t need: expensive wine for the big day, frivolous nibbles, extra cheese, extra biscuits, extra cream, extra everything. We didn’t have a list. Basically, if we saw something we fancied, and agreed that Mrs WeeKeef would not approve, it would go straight into the trolley. And then we would go and have a nice lunch, with a glass or two of something sparkling. Oh, how smug we were.

But now we have lost the last of our immediate elderly relatives – our Crumblies as we affectionately referred to them (though not in their earshot!). And now there is the realisation that Mrs WeeKeef and I are the eldest on our particular twigs on the family tree. We are the new Crumblies and I guess we have to adjust to that thought over the next few weeks and months.

Perhaps we will take on new roles and new names. Watch this space …

Ideal Homes

I ended my last post with the suggestion that there might be stuff going on in 2024. Well, it’s been a fairly busy January, one way or the other, for much of the family. And much of it involves house moves.

First up was Boy 3 (of 3) who, around the turn of the year, moved into his first flat of his very own. Yes, my youngest is a property owner, which is no mean feat for anyone nowadays. It’s a fairly standard Edinburgh tenement flat in the heart of Leith, close to transport, work and, importantly, several of his friends. In short, it is a great first flat and is an ideal first step on the property ladder. He looks pretty chuffed and I am hoping he has lots of fun there.

Then there’s Boy 1 who, along with the Girl from Leith (of course), moved from their flat to a brand new family home out in East Lothian just last week. Mrs WeeKeef and I managed to contain ourselves for about 12 hours before inviting ourselves over to see the new pile. It’s really nice. A modern family home with plenty of room to expand (they only have one cat at the moment!) and fab views south to the Borders hills. Despite mounds of boxes to empty and lots of furniture to acquire they also look pretty damn chuffed and I hope they are very happy there in their new married life.

And all of this comes against a background of Mrs WeeKeef pressing ahead on our plans to change abode ourselves. With all three offspring gone, our present home is too big for just the two of us and we should really think about downsizing for our coming twilight years. The problem is that we both really like our existing house. We have been here nearly 20 years, and have done a lot to it in that time. I’m just not sure that I am ready to move yet, whereas Mrs WK is firmly of the view that we should get out there and see what is available.

All of which sounds like a good basis for a TV programme. Either way, there is a certain amount of tension between my lovely wife’s natural tendency to be target-focussed and my huge coefficient of inertia.

Which will win out, you ask. Well, suffice to say that we have already been house viewing this month, despite agreeing to pause those efforts until the spring.

Watch this (rarely available in this highly desirable residential area, close to good transport links and just a short distance to the city centre, 4 Bdrm, 2 Bthrm, DG, GCH, detached) space.

Boy 1 and the Girl from Leith

Here we are at the very end of 2023 and I still haven’t told you about the best thing that happened during this year – despite promising to do so ages ago.

So come with me back in time to April 2023 when Boy 1 (of 3) married the Girl from Leith, in a beautiful ceremony and a lovely reception in the (converted) steadings of a big posh house in the Scottish Borders.

Eleven months on from the previous marital event, this year’s wedding was perhaps a little more “traditional”: there were kilts (not me) and sit down tables and dancing to a DJ. 

But like Boys 1 & 2 themselves, there were far more similarities than differences: the food was good, the drinks were plentiful, the speeches were great, the guests were all having fun, and the happy couple looked like they were having the very best day. And once again, Mrs WeeKeef and I got togged up for the occasion and looked pretty fine, though I do say so myself.

Above all, there was joy and there was love.

And this is the thing I have been thinking about a great deal since that day back in Spring. Having children, looking after them, watching them grow and then become adults is – to me – the most wonderful thing. If you have read any of this blog thing in the past you will know that is where I am at.

But I was struck so hard that day, watching Boy 1 standing, nervous and excited, at the front of the room, waiting to see his Girl appear and walk down the aisle towards him, that it is the most incredible thing to realise that somewhere along the way these “children” have found somebody who they love above everything else, and who they want to share their lives with. It is a wonderful thing to see and I am just so happy for the two of them.

And I, dear reader, now have two daughters (in-law) which means that 2023 was twice as good as 2022.

Just wait till you find out what’s happening in 2024. Happy New Year indeed!

Dizzy (My head is spinning)

It’s been a slightly odd week, health wise.

Last Monday was no problem at all. Normal day and a fun first sing through new music with the glorious SCO Chorus, followed by post-rehearsal toast and a bit of American football when I got home. Watching, not playing. (That last sentence probably didn’t need saying)

Then on Tuesday, up I got and, as is normal amongst people of our age, Mrs WeeKeef greets me with a polite enquiry after my health. Actually, says I, I feel a bit wonky. And so it continued for the next couple of days. All through Tuesday and Wednesday the world was spinning a bit, especially when I moved quickly, but even standing still I had this horrible feeling of wanting to fall forwards. I spent much of the day sitting down (no change there) and googling things like “vertigo” and “labyrinthitis” and “stroke”.

After a couple of days things started to improve, which is good as I know how debilitating a long episode like this can be for people – the Mater, for example, suffered quite badly for weeks. But even now, a week later, my head is still not quite in tune with the rest of me, or indeed the universe in general, and bending over or, more worryingly, standing back up again is no fun.

That’s a nuisance because there is lots to do this week. Much of it will involve driving and I haven’t been behind the wheel for days. So, before setting out into the streets this evening, I had a bit of a scoot down to the shops earlier just to see if my eyes, and all my other bits, are working OK. Well, if it’s good enough for Dominic Cummings, it’s good enough for me.

So far so good. But, if you happen to come across me flat out on the floor somewhere, or if I keel over while we are chatting, just prop me up against a wall out of the way. I’ll be fine in a minute.

94

Those who know me well would not be surprised to learn that I can, without hesitation, tell you exactly how many sleeps there are till Xmas. As of today’s date there are 94.

It’s one of those little things which amuses me and annoys many people. Often those people started their festive shopping back in March so they need to have a long, hard look at themselves, I would suggest.

But it is important to know, or at least have a vague idea of the timescales involved because (a) arranging festive visiting with an extended family can be a bit of a nightmare, and (b) those of us involved in seasonal singing need to plan well ahead. For example, rehearsals for at least one Advent-tide concert begin next week and, more generally, I currently have singing commitments of one sort or another on 40 days before December 25th, and there will be more added to that.

(Not sure Mrs WeeKeef is fully aware of this yet!)

So, yes, with Autumn in the air, the nights drawing in and the Equinox doing its thing in the next 24 hours, we are all kidding ourselves if we haven’t given it at least a bit of thought.

That, however, is no excuse for what I witnessed this morning. There we were, myself and Sis-in-Law meandering through Gyle shopping centre, to be confronted by a Christmas Tree and Fairy Lights in one of the shop windows. WTF?

Now, I have only the vaguest notion of what a yankee candle is, and even less idea as to why anybody would actually want one, but they ain’t going to win me over as a new customer with baubles this early in the year, that’s for sure.

They need to spruce up their ideas!

Prom Prom Prom

Almost exactly four years ago I was telling you that my singing adventures had put me on a train to London to sing in a BBC Prom concert. I was unreasonably excited and made no apologies for that.

A lot has happened in the intervening period: a pandemic; the departure of the Mater; retirement; several dozen Prime Ministers … And, as I have mentioned, singing came and went as we all dealt with Covid. But it is very definitely back.

And so … I am on a train, travelling to London. The train is full of people, and quite a few of those people are singers or players with the SCO. The reason we are all heading south is that tomorrow we will be performing Mendelssohn’s “Elijah” at the Royal Albert Hall as part of the BBC Proms 2023. My once in a lifetime experience has become a twice in a lifetime experience!

And yes, once again I am unashamedly excited. Elijah is one of my favourite pieces of music but I have only sung it once before, some 14 years ago. Tomorrow we are going to rock the house with a fantastic orchestra, souped up Chorus and, judging by our rehearsal earlier this week, five stellar soloists who are just wonderful.

So once again, hello to my fellow SCO Chorus peeps. We are, as ever, going to be awesome.

Daisy Daisy

We are nearing the end of a very pleasant week in North Yorkshire, exploring the moors and the spectacular coast around Robin Hood’s Bay, Whitby and Staithes.

Our base for the week has been a really lovely rental property – Daisy Cottage – close to the last of these. It’s the sort of holiday home you are hoping for as you set off at the start of the week: in a great location, spotless and so well equipped that our own lovely abode is going to look a bit scruffy when we get back tomorrow.

All of which is great but it does lead to a bit of a dilemma, which is what one should write in the Guest Book before leaving. We live in the age of trip advisor and online reviews, but there is still the lure and immediacy of the physical record and it is something I always look through on arrival.

But, of course, everyone writes pretty much the same thing: “great location … spotless … so well equipped”. Blah blah blah. I want to try to be a wee bit different. I want to provide something a bit more original. Something that will make the next holidaymakers sit up and pay attention.

My first draft reads:

They’re in the walls 
I can hear them
Oh god, they’re coming

They’re coming

While she accepts that this is fairly original, Mrs WeeKeef is not convinced that it is the sort of thing that happy, shiny vacationers want to read shortly after arrival.

She’s probably right. But, if you don’t hear from me again, don’t say you weren’t warned.

Have a nice summer.

Will you still need me, will you still read me?

It occurs to me, on this sunny June day, that I have been wittering away on here for 14 years now. That’s quite a long time and I am not sure that I have managed to change the world any as a result. Though that was never the idea.

And yes, I know I haven’t said anything new for a while. Not even about the big event in April, about which I promised a blog way back last year. (Yes, I did) But nobody has been clamouring.

Which begs the question, I guess, is there anybody still out there? I mean, it’s OK if there’s not. If I were hungry for readers and/or attention generally, I would be attempting some new dance craze on Instagram or TikTok*. Or making YouTube* videos which all open with the words “Hey guys …”. Or peddling my ageing bod on OnlyFans* (Eww!).

No, I am happy enough to post a wee link on Facebook* and you, my lovely reader(s) may partake if you so wish. Or not.

Either way, I will be posting a bit more soon. But in the meantime I’m just saying Happy Birthday to Donald Trump, Boy George, Che Guevara, Rod Argent, Yasmine Bleeth, Steffi Graf, Lang Lang and Scotty from Star Trek.

Oh, and me.

* Why do social media sites never have spaces in their names?

Conned

I might have mentioned previously that I do a bit of singing. Don’t worry if you’ve missed it, there will be more as the year goes on. Oh, yes. 

But I think I have only mentioned in passing that Mrs WeeKeef is herself something of an amateur musician. An alum of The Grade One Orchestra (not my story to tell), Mrs WK has gone on to greater things and has, for several years, been playing Trumpet in Edinburgh’s Dunedin Wind Band. 

Earlier this month the Band had their first gig of the year, playing the opening set to welcome Conventioneers to the city’s Capital Sci-Fi Con 2023. Unfortunately I wasn’t there to hear them but I’m told that their collection of Star Wars, Marvel and Indiana Jones blockbusters went down well. 

On her return my lovely wife announced that she had blagged a couple of wristbands which would allow us to visit and take in the event. I have to admit I was a little wary at first. The last time somebody gave me a wristband I was also wearing one of those sexy, backless NHS gowns and people were cutting bits out of me.

It seemed unlikely that this would happen again, though, and so we trotted along on the following morning to see what there was to see. Goodness! Who knew that Scotland’s capital is home to so many Stormtroopers, Elf Maidens and Robot Overlords? We were woefully under-dressed. It would be wrong to say that I was totally out of my comfort zone, but we certainly weren’t in Kansas anymore. Or perhaps we were. 

Cosplayers of all shapes, sizes and species rubbed shoulders with Frozen princesses and mini Spidermen, while they wandered past tables loaded with the sort of plastic toys that like to pass as “souvenirs”, gazed at original artworks, both on paper and skin, and tried not to stare too much at the occasional semi-famous person signing autographs and assuring people that they were indeed the actual one 204th from the left in the big fight scene half way through the movie.

All of which sounds a bit scathing of me but actually we all have different ways of enjoying ourselves and I am well aware that I have a number of friends who think me strange for dressing up in black several times a year to belt out some classical music in a variety of languages. To be honest, the over-riding memory I have of the Convention is of so many people, young and old, from all walks of life, having such good fun. It was, apart from anything else, a magnificently diverse and inclusive event. I shall look forward to Capital Sci-Fi Con 2024.

In the meantime, in one of those strange coincidences that life likes to offer up, I shall be at an important lunch later this week where I will meet, for the first time in some years, a young man who has been known to friends (and occasionally family) since his school days as Wookie.

My vulnerable squeeze place

I recently updated my desktop PC from a 2012 Windows 7 behemoth to a lovely new Windows 11 piece of kit. Nothing too fancy, but it’s nice and does the job quickly and quietly.

There have, inevitably, been some changes in personal computing since I was last in the market. Actual disk drives appear largely to be a thing of the past, as are CD/DVD drives. SD/USB etc ports are also in short supply. Time for what we used to call “peripherals” back in the 1980s.

Today I took delivery of an external drive which does all sorts of things at all sorts of speeds and has all sorts of connections. I say took delivery, and Amazon’s tracking page clearly tells us that the parcel was “handed to resident”. In fact, said resident was not in residence at the time and the parcel was actually dropped over a six foot fence into the back garden. Hm! That quibble aside, the drive is unpacked, plugged in and tested and seems to be performing admirably.

It’s the instructions which have flummoxed me. I assume they were printed in China, given that the item was manufactured there. Perhaps they were printed elsewhere. What is certain is that they were not printed in any country where English is the first language (or German or French, come to that). Well, we are all used to that and we are skilled, nowadays, in the art of reading between, across and through the lines. Heaven knows the interweb is full of hilarious translations that went wrong.

Anyway, none of today’s booklet would win a literary prize, but I thought I would share one particular line which has intrigued me. It is right up front, in the important dos and don’ts, as “Note 9”.

It reads:

“Don’t put this item on the vulnerable squeeze place, to ensure successfully normal use.”

I’m worried. I don’t think I have a vulnerable squeeze place. I’m not sure I ever had one. Worse still – perhaps I did and I’ve forgotten.

The best I can say, dear reader, is that I shall be careful but, should I happen across such a place in using this new IT marvel, you will be the first to know.

* * * * *

PS – The latter pages of the instruction booklet are no help. They variously identify the same location as either “le lieu de compression vulnérable“ or “die gefährdete Quetschstelle”.

Nearly normal

So, how has your year been? After the upheavals of 2020 and 2021 it feels like we are getting back towards normal. Nearly.

What is normal anyway? If the last two or three years have taught me anything it’s that there is no such thing as a typical year. That’s easily confirmed for me just by reading back through some of the posts on this blog.

The year didn’t start well of course. Just when we thought we were coming out of the pandemic and life was opening up again – Bang! – Mrs WeeKeef and I finally succumbed to Covid. Actually, we escaped fairly lightly, considering what we saw on our TVs two years earlier, but I decided to be awkward and follow up a fortnight later with a massive gall bladder infection which saw me in hospital for only the second time in my life.

More widely there has been bad stuff too. Recession. An energy crisis. Climate change. War in Europe. The UK Government losing its collective mind and deciding to play pass the Prime Ministerial parcel. Terrible stuff, and I am not ignoring it.

But actually, on a personal note, things have improved enormously and there has been much to enjoy and celebrate. Retirement for a start, for me in April and Mrs WK in June. The Big “R”. Yes, it is taking a bit of adjustment, but I have to say that I miss my working life far less than I thought I might.

Apart from anything else, there’s time to enjoy life a bit more so we have taken a few trips here and there, including a return to Amsterdam which we love, and we are back to gadding about the restaurants, parks and concert halls of Edinburgh town and beyond with friends and family.

Plus, music is back: Mrs WK has once again picked up her trumpet and I am currently singing regularly in two choirs. Concerts have been played and sung this year, and there are already some exciting dates in the calendar for 2023.

I guess one of the biggest things has been the chance to see family much more often. WeeSis has been here from America-lite, and our Australians have all visited at least once each. In fact, we worked out that we have had visitors to Edinburgh on very nearly 200 days this year.

But of course the event of the year was when Boy 2 (of 3) and The Welsh Girl got married. It was a beautiful day and we had a great time. So we are especially looking forward to the coming year when Boy 1 is to marry his lovely intended – The Girl from Leith. I have just RSVP’d to that particular invitation, and I am grinning already.

And when I write it all out like that it’s easy to see that 2022 has had many of the things that I missed – that we all missed – so much during the lockdown years: friends and family; music; holidays; eating, drinking and being merry.

So I’m really just here to say that I hope you have had a normal year too. Whatever that means to you.

And that you have a Happy, Prosperous and, above all, normal New Year.

Deliver Aargh!

If there’s one thing we learned from being stuck at home during the pandemic it was that even crusty old geezers like me can shop online. There are many advantages, but the main downside seems to be that we are at the mercy of delivery drivers, despite all our best efforts.

I currently have three items due for delivery over the next couple of days:

• One is not time critical but I paid extra for a 4 hour slot in the morning. I have heard nothing since, so am hoping for the best;
• The second item is time critical and is due for delivery tomorrow. I have just received a mail saying it will be delivered sometime in the next 2 to 4 days. Maybe sooner;
• The third is definitely time critical and is ordered for delivery in two days time. Earlier, I had a text to say it will be delivered tomorrow. No time slot.

If there’s one thing I am learning about the post-pandemic world it is that we are still stuck at home at the mercy of delivery drivers.

Dutch treat

I don’t understand algorithms. I mean, I know what they are for and, in general, how they work, but the cunning little bits of code lurking behind internet algorithms sometimes leave me nonplussed.

Take Spotify, for example. Do you use Spotify? (Other music streaming apps are available) I use it all the time for music that I know, music that I don’t know but need to learn, podcasts, etc, etc. And it’s great. It does the job I need it to.

And every Monday morning the nice people at Spotify send me a new “Discover Weekly” playlist: 30 tunes which are captured by the algorithm and brought to me in the belief that I may find these interesting. And sometimes I do: sometimes there is the familiar but forgotten; sometimes a strange mix of 70s Glam juxtaposed with baroque quartets; and sometimes something completely new to me that sets me off searching for a new artist or composer or album.

But frequently the collection of 30 includes one or two tunes which make me wonder how they ever got there. Acker Bilk makes a regular appearance, for example, and I just cannot figure out why. Similarly there are an awful lot of showtunes.

But it’s the Dutch stuff which I really don’t understand. Something happened 4 or 5 years ago to make Spotify think I was really into cross-over folk/pop/rock from the Low Countries. I’ve no idea what that was but every week my list of 30 tunes includes one, two or more Dutch artists singing their hearts out. Every. Single. Week. And I don’t know how to make it stop!

Two weeks ago Mrs WeeKeef and I took a trip to Amsterdam. It was our first holiday abroad (though not our first holiday) since before the pandemic and we had four lovely days in a city we know quite well. We walked a lot. We ate and drank a lot. And we met up with an old friend we have not seen in a long time.

But all the time we were there a little voice in the back of my head kept saying “Just wait till next Monday. Spotify is going to go crazy!” So, at the start of last week I logged on and there it was … nothing. Not a thing. No Anouk. No Herman Brood. Not even a little mouse with clogs on. Niks!

Oh, well, I thought, perhaps there’s a bit of a delay and next week will be chock full of Eddie Van Halen and Trijntje Oosterhuis. Nope! There’s a song featuring Jools Holland but I’m not sure that counts. It seems the best way to cleanse your Spotify of a nation’s music is to visit that nation.

I just don’t understand algorithms.

Her Majesty

My first memory of Queen Elizabeth II is very clear. I was just five years old, and I was sitting in front of our little black and white TV, helping the Mater to shell peas and watching Her Majesty opening the Forth Road Bridge.

My final memory of the Queen was when I stood at the roadside just last week to see the body of our longest serving monarch pass, in a flag-draped coffin, on her way to leaving Scotland for the last time. Mrs WeeKeef was at a different vantage point about a mile to the east of me, so was able to text to say that they were on the way. That gave me just enough time to prepare for a quick photo as the hearse approached, but still allow time for a small genuflection as they drew level.

That quick nod of acknowledgement and respect surprised me a little. It wasn’t planned but, at that moment, it was simply the right thing, for me, to do. But it got me wondering why I was there at all, and I suppose there were multiple reasons.

In part, it was simply to witness history. In part, it was to represent my own departed loved ones, in particular Auntie M and the Mater, for whom “Queenie” was such an important anchor in their lives. And in part it was because, ultimately, I could do no less and no more to show my own respect for a remarkable lady who was, amongst other things, my boss for 43 years. Remarkable because her entire life was thrust upon her, unexpected and unwanted, and yet she stepped up and performed that role 24 hours a day, 365 days a year for more than 80 years, as heir and then sovereign. That, in itself, is worth a little nod of respect, I think.

I know that many of my friends and others reading this will not feel about today’s funeral and the surrounding events in the same way. I know that many people disagree strongly with the job, the role, the institution and indeed some of the individuals. That’s fine. We can talk about that on another day if you really want.

But today is about a family who have lost a loved one. It is about the many tens of thousands of people who have lined the roads, queued in the streets and filed past the coffin as the Queen lay in state this last week. It is for those who have shed tears for a loss they also feel, and for those of us remembering our own lost loved ones.

As I type this Mrs WK and I are sitting in our accustomed positions on our couch, watching yet another royal event. A funeral. I guess it is probably our age but we have both welled up a few times over the past few days, moved, as much as anything, by the spectacle of how the death of the monarch has impacted so many others so deeply. And by how many of those people have such good memories of Elizabeth the Second. And by all of those who have told stories of how, when they met the Queen, she brought fun or joy or kindness or, often, comfort.

Paul McCartney once sang that Her Majesty was a pretty nice girl and that seems to be the abiding memory for so many people who encountered her over the years. It’s a pretty good way to be remembered. I hope she would be pleased.

Home and Away

Like many before us, Mrs WeeKeef and I have plans to travel a bit in our retirement. Nothing too epic: we are not Marco Polo. But a round-trip taking in visits to both of our siblings in parts far-flung is definitely pencilled in.

We are not rushing at things. The combined factors of the worst economic climate for 50 years, a war in Europe and our wish not to stray too far from the Ma-in-Law mean that anything too ambitious is on hold for a while.

But that’s OK. The continuing after-shocks of a world-wide pandemic mean that we are being a bit wary, but our initial steps back into the world earlier this year have been followed by a lovely return to the Cotswolds last month and a brief, first ever trip to the splendid medieval town of Shrewsbury just last week. Now, confident that it can be done and getting downright cocky, we have plans for two, perhaps three more jaunts over the next two months.

But this gives me a bit of an issue over nomenclature. Up until now I would have said that we have been on holiday. But, being retired, what are we on holiday from? The very word implies a departure from the norm, especially in its original sense of being a Holy Day. But is the term that accurate for us these days?

Similarly, our North American friends would say that we were on “vacation”, but that implies that we are leaving something vacant and that’s not true. Anyway, in the double-entry book-keeping of life it would suggest that we had recently occupied Shrewsbury and I am not sure we could legitimately claim such a bold move.

A quick shuffle through my well-thumbed thesaurus offers a wider range of alternatives but none really fits the bill: “respite” – from what?; “relaxation” – I’ve always been pretty good at that; “distraction” – I’m not sure that that … oh look squirrels; “fun” – lots of that anyway; “festivity” – please, I am from Edinburgh; “buffoonery” – see above!

I think, on the whole, we are going to have to stick with “holiday” and accept it in the sense of being a period away from home, having fun (hopefully).

I shall tell you what our three trips to date are not. They are NOT a “staycation“. That is a horrible new word which has drifted very quickly from its original meaning of having some time off based at home, to become “not abroad”.

How horribly entitled. The suggestion that one has not had a proper holiday unless it involves plane travel is ridiculous. It means that I only had my first holiday when I was 27 years old, whereas I can vividly remember some fabulous, sunny weeks in a caravan as far away as North Berwick (25 miles) when I was a youngster. It also implies that our wonderful country (UK) is somehow not as good as parts foreign – not worthy of our time and interest.

I am not having it! The word “staycation” does not appear in my even-better-thumbed dictionary (published in 1988) and I refuse to acknowledge it as a thing. Our forthcoming excursions to Perthshire and (possibly) Lancaster are holidays, and that’s that.

Oh, and I have just checked in to our flights to Amsterdam. Now we’re talking ….

Neighbours

Back in 1985 the Ex and I were seduced into watching the latest “big thing” to hit British television – the Aussie soap. Neighbours was heavily trailed by the BBC for weeks beforehand and, though “serial drama” was not our thing, we decided to give it a go. Well, there were only four channels to choose from back in those days.

Like many of our friends, colleagues and indeed neighbours at the time and since, we were hooked. For a while at least. The glory days of Scott and Charlene, Mrs Mangel and, of course, Bouncer the dog kept us amused for some years and there was always something to discuss at the water cooler at work next day, even if it was only to wonder why all the interiors were so dimly lit, or why schoolgirls’ skirts were so short.

Eventually, of course, we moved on to other things having realised that, as with all such productions, the faces may come and go, the hairstyles may change, but the story lines stay exactly the same year in year out.

This was best illustrated one day in the mid-nineties when I returned home from work to find the Ex busy, the Boys (2) having their tea and Neighbours bubbling away on telly with no-one paying much attention. I stopped to take in the scene of some chap lying in a hospital bed hooked up to an unlikely amount of electronic equipment, with various beeps and buzzers going off.

The following conversation then took place:

Me: Hello

Ex: Hello

Me (pointing at telly): Who’s that ?

Ex: Oh, that’s ______________ (something Australian)

Me: What’s wrong with him?

Ex: He’s in a coma, apparently.

Me: Why?

Ex: It’s his turn.

Oh, how we laughed!

On the other hand, it is the familiarity of it all which is central to the success of such programmes. While the Mater was never one for Coronation Street or EastEnders, she became a big fan of the comings and goings on Ramsay Street in her later years, with Neighbours being central to what she called “My lunchtime programmes.” She would be saddened by the fact that tonight sees the final episode being broadcast on UK TV after thirty-seven years.

It’s like losing good friends.

PS – This is not the first time I have mentioned Neighbours here. There was the time the programme was very nearly the cause of a fight at the office. But that is a different story …

Boy 2 and the Welsh Girl

Ever since he was very young Boy 2 (of 3) has been a very determined, independent, self-contained person.

At four years of age he wouldn’t wear just any old trainers. At 12 he went for a week’s introductory skiing course and by the end he had passed the first four grades (or whatever they are called). And at 18 he flew the nest to head for student life in Dundee.

When he started work he set to with his usual focus and was heard to say that he was just going to get on with things and that he didn’t have time for relationships and all that nonsense.

So, when he met someone it was a bit of a surprise that he fell so very hard and so very fast. But then we met the Welsh Girl and it wasn’t really a surprise at all. She is just one of the nicest people you could possibly meet and she has had such an astounding impact on our Boy. Don’t get me wrong – he has always been lovely. But now he is a smiley, relaxed, emotional young man.

He still has all of that focus, all of the self-assurance and can-do approach to life. But now he has someone to share it with. They are a fantastic, well-matched couple and, frankly, it is a bit exhausting listening to all their plans and keeping up with all they are achieving in their home and life together.

Anyway, at the end of last month Boy 2 and the Welsh Girl got married in the garden of their own lovely home. It was just one of the best days. The sun shone, the ceremony and “speeches” were beautifully informal and the wedding picnic was a lovely innovation. The two of them shone happiness and I could not be more pleased for them than I am.

Mrs WeeKeef and I scrubbed up pretty well for the day and the happy couple looked just wonderful.

And I, dear reader, have a daughter (-in-law) for the first time in my life. This is also something to be happy about.

For more family wedding news, tune in next April.

WeeSis

The quickest of entries today, because I realise that I have been terribly remiss and have not told you of the very big thing that has happened lately. WeeSis has come for a visit.

After almost three years – three long, difficult years including the pandemic and the loss of our wonderful Mater – my lovely sister has made it across the Atlantic from America-lite.

I have to admit I was a little nervous to meet her again because so much has happened that it could all have got horribly emotional at the airport. But we contained ourselves and, for the past fortnight, we have had a lovely time catching up, getting out and about and eating some fab dinners.

We have also put her to work, helping me to get out of the rut I was in with the Mater’s place. We have made good progress and, though there is still much to do, I can begin to see the end of the tunnel and will be able to finally get the flat on the market in the foreseeable future.

But there is another reason she has come, or at least has come now, and that is so that she can share in a happy family event.

It’s happening tomorrow and I am so excited ………..