Saturday: To Brixham for the Heritage Festival fireworks, which were top-notch as ever. We leaned on the harbour railings while the whizz-bangs whizz-banged and a slightly merry lady from one of the kiosks gave us the rundown on what a great place Brixham is. We hadn't the heart to tell her that we weren't on holiday and knew the place inside-out, so we just listened politely and nodded. Younger daughter ate ice cream out of a cone packed with fudge. I almost asked the man in the shop if he packed the fudge himself, but Mrs H elbowed me in the ribs and told me to stop being so childish.
Sunday: Gardening and mooching. Walking the dog. Motor racing on TV. Beer.
Monday: Mooching and gardening. Walking the dog. Me in a foul mood because Bank Holidays are for getting out and doing things, NOT for mooching and gardening.
Tuesday: To Calais on one of Mrs H's whims. 'Why not?' she said, and it was hard to come up with a reason. Drove to Dover up the A303 and caught SeaFrance Rodin. Disaster as the Friterie des Nations was closed, but it was open again when we returned a little later in the afternoon. Sun broke through in the evening for a drive up to Cap Gris Nez and then on to Wimereux with horse riders on the beach silhouetted against the setting sun and a flock of sand martins doing their noisy thing. If there's a better stretch of road to drive on a sunny evening I've yet to find it.
Wednesday: A couple of cases of wine and general grocery shopping. Three French bulldog puppies for 999 euros each in the pet shop. Mrs H wanted to buy them, but got a bit confused with the exchange rate. When I explained the error of her ways she went a bit cold on the deal. Heard a cuckoo while strolling in the grounds of the fort. SeaFrance Rodin back again over a choppy Channel, then a nightmare drive home. M25 solid. M3 solid. A303 closed due to accident at Stonehenge. Nothing for it but to hammer back down the M4 and the M5 listening to the European Cup Final. Manchester United lost, so that cheered us all up a bit.
Thursday: Mrs H into hospital for long-awaited knee operation, carried out by Dr Nie (I kid you not). Saw a handsome fox in Primley Meadow while walking the puppy in the morning, which lightened the atmosphere somewhat. The operation went well and by 6pm I was driving her home again. I asked her what she wanted to eat, expecting the answer to be something like a poached egg and milky tea, but she wanted sausage and mash.
Friday: Mrs H is bored by convalescence already. We drove out to Ashburton to collect tickets for the Blues Festival and Mrs H tackled the stairs with gusto.
Saturday: Wall Park hosts a match between two teams of Brixham United veterans. They haven't asked me to play, which will probably seem like a good thing in hindsight. It's a 2-2 draw, and there are many familiar faces, including one man I haven't seen for 20 years and had in the meantime convinced myself that he must be dead. I am delighted to report that he isn't. Mrs H valiantly toils up those stairs again and sits with her bad knee shielded from the crowds as Nine Below Zero play a glorious set of red-hot R&B. Even Mrs H, up until now not a great advocate of Nine Below Zero, concedes that they were damn good. Now get me out of here before some bastard bumps into my knee.
Sunday: Garden centre, lawn mowing and an extraordinary finish to the Giro d'Italia. Space Beacon Earth rehearse in a carpet warehouse in Teignmouth in the evening ahead of tomorrow's big debut gig. For the first hour and a half they are woeful, and forget everything. Then suddenly the penny drops and they are right on top of their game. Roll on tomorrow.
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