The call came to ‘rescue’ my mother from her ‘irritating’ grandchildren (what, all of them?) and in particular England (what, all of it?) whom she had grown tired of in spite of spending years telling us how wonderful it was, whilst not reading Samuel Johnson. This was not a Christmas request it was a demand. Not being one to simply drive somewhere and back, Stuart was enrolled as co-driver and Mariella our Satellite navigator. Stuart naturally also added to the itinerary by suggesting France to get some wine. Channel Tunnel – no problems with 53 trains a day. We were set.

4:30am and 3 alarms went off (Ali’s phone with Ali, my iphone and Kim’s hypnosis/relaxation CD). So the entire house was now awake apart from Stuart who was supposed to be going with me. Roused with an operatic awakening he struggled to the car and double checking we went through Change of Underwear – check, sat nav – check, passport – oops Stuart had left it somewhere we couldn’t get it at 5am – France was off the itinerary.

First stop was urinating off Flamborough Head. Quick drive down past 4 wind turbines surrounded with massive oil and gas processing plants with security protected fences and warnings. Mariella asked me to turn right which I did straight in front of another car which beeped for quite a while as we tore off down the road – ah it wasn’t a mini roundabout after all… towards Spurn Point or Spurn Head in the Middle of the Humber estuary. Twitchers giving us dirty looks as we careered along a single track broken and sand track to reach the spit in the Humber. Stuart decided to take over the driving after a couple of dodgy skids and the suspension complaining about the speed we hit the sleeping policemen (speed bumps for the younger readers). That meant that he had to drive over the Humber Bridge in high winds which must have taken a bit of concentration as he shut up all the way over apart form midway where nervously he said ‘it is only our forward momentum that is keeping us on this bridge’.

Next stop was Ye Olde Trip to Jerusalem in Nottingham (city motto – it is 8 times safer to park in an NCP car park than on our streets) the oldest tourist trap (nee pub) in England under Nottingham Castle. It was where the crusaders stopped on their way to raping and pillaging and I can see why crusades took so long as there was a 55 minute wait for lunch. Olde Trip ale slipped down my throat and Stuart got us through some dodgy looking Nottingham folk (possibly sired from Robin Hood and his gang of thugs) to drive us straight onto a massive 20 mile tailback on the M1.

We decided by now that the Margate Shell Grotto and Dover and Brighton was out of the itinerary and it was straight to Staines via High Wycombe and Heathrow and a busy M25. I directed Stuart straight to the Crooked Billet roundabout which is a superb puzzle of multiple roundabouts and roads controlled by traffic light filters merging with about 5 major roads. Mariella kept wanting us to go where it was impossible to and we followed other cars who were probably controlled by the same sat nav software through a maze of Staines suburbia to make another attempt on the Crooked Billet. This time almost correct and ended up outside Debbie and Simon’s to a warm welcome from the ‘irritants’ who whisked Stuart off to play with all their Xmas games leaving me with the drinks cabinet and the puzzle of how to fit mum and her plasma telly and stand and all of her clothes into the back of the car. It was just as well we hadn’t gone to France to stock up on booze.

It was either the telly or mum – mum won and the telly got sent by courier. Simon had just finished telling us proudly about his ex-SAS chum assigned to protecting Benazir Bhutto from assassination when the news got turned on announcing her assassination. The ‘irritants’ were as lovely as ever, for small children and Fenella recalled perfectly my recipe for turning small girls into webcubs – ‘my uncle is a werewolf’ is a reasonable epitaph.

We stocked the car with as much as would fit in and dashed off escaping Staines in a car with no number plate (dirt had made it entirely invisible so even the warning sign at Oxford services threatening that all reg numbers are captured on CCTV didn’t concern us) and arriving at Oxford for a wander through the wonderful streets to the Radcliffe Camera. Mum, Stuart and I squeezed up a spiral staircase in a medieval tower to see the dreaming spires in a high wind and to check out mum’s cardiovascular system before racing off to Cheshire along the m5 toll road (where the road signs read ‘toll prices changing soon’) and to the Salt Museum at Nantwich (it was actually at Northwich though thanks to a misreading of the Far from the Sodding Crowd entry). We unwisely introduced granny to the Yellow Car game – where you hit the driver or passenger when a yellow car is spotted driving in the opposite direction – people who buy yellow cars must be going through their life thinking that Britain is full of people in cars hitting each other. Mum hit me even when there were no yellow cars but it is nice to get your years of aggression worked out through violence, so it was the least I could do to bruise easily and wince

Torrential rain cleaned our number plate so we kept to speed limits all the way to Tebay for chocolate and coffees before sailing back to the Borders.

We entertained mum with visits to neighbours, feeding livestock (and barrowing the deadstock – in this case a lamb) and for New Year we had a murder mystery (I was Major Windbag and we even had split personalities with 2 people playing some characters which was confusing once drink started to flow). The New Year started by being thrillingly snowed in.

Mum threatened with hard work and a snow shovel decided it was time to go so it was a frantic attempt to find accommodation around Arbroath (some didn’t answer, some did but sounded neanderathal (do you work on reception? yarr … well perhaps you shouldn’t), and some had mobile phones that went to a woman who had bought the hotels mobile phone. We drove north via the Anstruther fish bar, with the sea was coming over the wall and there was a cold wind so we walked back filled with haddock and chips munching some nice ice cream. We delivered her to a hotel run by Indians in Broughty Ferry, unoriginally called ‘The Hotel’, with the bed headboard being a leopard skin and her bed chair covered with some hairy skin. We escaped via St Andrews to launch ourselves upon our chums the Bunnies and demolish their champagne, play Wii (I still don’t have one myself) and wander around the surprisingly empty Saturday night streets.

Weather in January has deteriorated to the point that we have hurricane winds and the threat of a Sting Jet. Our tables ended up in the pond and recycling cycled around the garden.

Our new plane is all built and ready and our old plane is up for sale.

Tis the season to be jolly, unless you are a sheep or the recipient of my annual newsletter.

November the 10th is the traditional slaughter time, but we typically skidded past that. Foot and mouth licences were not required now but we needed to tag the sheep. That exercise consisted of first getting the sheep in the front field with Steph on a horse scaring them, an electric fence to discourage them and the rest of us chasing them through the gate. Second stage was chasing the sheep around a log pile with Kim hiding and leaping out and grabbing one or two of them at a time. Mike would then run around with a tag gun and ear tag them. The sheep got wise to this and butted Kim from behind and kicked her in the groin for good measure. We finally had them all tagged and separated them out ready for collection in a horse box.

We all carried half a dozen individually into the horse box early in the morning and then Kim and I drove over to Galashiels – the abbatoir is the perfect set for an Eastern European horror film, unsignposted (other than a sign saying Keep Out). We closed off one gate and Mike entered the horse box which shoogled around with bumping and running around before emerging with a struggling horned devil and passed it to a bemused slaughter man. This ritual continued until two got out at the same time and one made a bid for escape, fortunately stymied by another slaughterman passing. We waved goodbye and Kim bizarrely said ‘Do look after them’. It turned out that 2 were condemned (i.e. lost) and we got four of them back in a tesco size shopping crate from the butcher at Freelands Foods who did a splendid job in presenting them all labelled and looking very tasty indeed.

Ali’s school parents night at the Galashiels Academy was a well organised affair and we met with his enthusiastic teachers (most of whom seemed to be leaving since Ali joined). He had a Miss English for maths and a Spanish English teacher with a most gorgeous accent. Kim met an old friend and we headed off to see the Golden Compass (Northern Lights without catholics) and munch revels during the armed polar bear attacks. Dinner at the Indian opposite turned out to be filled with Galashiels Academy teachers celebrating another parents night over with few fatalities. Ali was passed a note with various Maths equations and his maths teacher shouted over ‘Alasdair you have 5 minutes to get them correct’, which cheered him up no end.

The Microlight Christmas Dinner was a jolly affair and I did not end up on the roll of dishonour since he had not flown enough to have too many incidents or crashes. However, sadly, Ian Trench was announced as having lost his battle with bone cancer and there was a toast to a good flying companion. His memory remains every time we look at the club webcam as he organised the cameras. His funeral was a sad affair but fitting for a pilot had a flying swan stained glass motif above the coffin. I spent a couple of chilly and hazy hour long flights around East Lothian to add up Mike’s minimum hours and arranged our new plane G-CWEB a Mainair GT450 allowing us to travel long distances in comfort (over the channel sounds exciting for starters).

Scott’s Selkirk is a jolly annual treat with a market and mulled wine and the majority of Selkirk dressed in victorian outfits and Mike escapes to the fabulous book store and into the fabulous deli/cafe where people dressed as french prisoners made us all sing ‘La Marseillaise’. We were so impressed with the County Hotel bar and lunch that we chose it for the Calligrafix Christmas luncheon (lucky them) where we were mostly well behaved and ended up at Squirrels to swallow the 3 for the price of 2 carry outs before heading back home armed with fish suppers.

Iphone hits Britain and, deftly ignoring Stuart’s abuse and misplaced ridicule, Mike purchases one. And what a splendid machine it is too – cracked of course and with additional programs such as Internet Radio, Video and running a web server and some software to crack WEP passwords I just need to have it working on my vodafone contract since O2 seem to have forgotten the Borders for service. It is not without its problems (Windows x64 and itunes are not friends at all but I can now watch the Queens Christmas message (on youtube) whilst at the Christmas table. I also keep a log of quality of orgasms with the lunar cycles to see if there is a correlation.

Rowing has turned into a manic drive to do 100 kilometres before Christmas Eve and the final days saw 8 kilometres per day (1 in the morning, 2 at lunch and 5 in the evening) being standard. Lots of sweat is also standard. And the reward? I get to print out my own certificate and heat transfer design – woo yay!

Christmas shopping in Carlisle consisted of me getting my eyes tested and photographed (no glacuoma and diabetes today) and horribly expensive Vision Express rimless varifocals ordered. Kim was constantly called and forced to march to chose frames, the rechoose them because the lens wouldn’t fit the first ones. I also saw a couple arguing in the street ‘where the f*ck were you last night’,'i left the pub early’,'lying bitch’… before making my way around a very confusing, but spectacular museum and art galleries (paintings of a himalayan mountain from all sides and a mermaid called Helen were high points). Carlisle christmas lights were lovely and there were singing santas, accordian playing santas and carol singers in santa outfits (in case we forgot about the real message of Christmas) and four lingerie shops with Anne Summers appearing as number 69 on the town plan. The Marks and Spencer shop there has a plaque noting that Bonnie Prince Charlie was there – first Twiggy and now the hero of shortbread tins is claimed by the company. A pub was selling ‘Orgasms’ – baileys and Ameretto, but I had already added an orgasm to my log and this was unlikely to be as good really.

Sheila up the road decided to go missing. Kate called saying that she was worried as Sheilas lights were not on, so Kim and her crept up with a spare key, crept up with a torch to her bedroom and prodded the pile of clothes (which fortunately was not sheila), then proceeded to sweep the place (still in torchlight) before realising that they could turn the lights on. Next possibility was that Sheila had collapsed in the garden so a torchlight sweep was performed there before Kim returned to announce ‘Sheila has vanished’. I obviously suspected aliens immediately, but then suggested that they could try her mobile again – again – they hadn’t done it the first time. Kim called, Sheila answered – ‘I am in the Royal Infirmary’. The story leaked out about kidney tests, please feed the cat and keep a place at the Christmas table for me. We are still unsure how many people are going to be dining at our Christmas table – some children may, some children may not, mothers may or may not, neighbours may or may not. We might have to get an inflatable turkey this year.

We even had one copy of our rush to press Christmas Newsletter returned as offensive (normally people just shred it or throw it on the fire). ‘Never mind the quality feel the width’ felt that the entry on sheep had more lines than the one on Kim’s father – not realising that Kim’s father entry had been heavily edited down as it would have been much more offensive if it had been sent in my original version. I would like to point out that it was only one father and it was 6 sheep. We were also accused to airing Ali’s problems (I seem to remember they were more our problems than Ali’s who was having a jolly fine and fully financed time) to all and sundry. Since there is a selected subset of ‘all’ who receive the annual newsletter they must consider themselves sundry (I will add a link to an online version for ‘all’ as I had forgotten about them).

Wildlife have been a focus recently – Ali called to say that he had watched a piece of grass move and then up popped a mole looked around and then headed back down after seeing Ali. We have a house robin. It flew in and we all spent ages trying to let it out. It was then waiting on the wall for the next time the door opened – and it does this each time – sitting on the wheelbarrow of logs and diving in when we let the dog out – flies around, poohs on my computer screen and then after deftly missing the electric fly killer flies outside (or upstairs to annoy the cat).
Flying sheep were also seen as Flora got the new ram with her horns and threw him out of her food area.

And so to Christmas Day – lots of great presents, especially the ones labelled “To the Family from Mike’. They are thrilled to play with the sextant and Kim is especially pleased with the ‘How to Fly a Plane’ book. Alasdair managed to deliver gentlemen tailoring to me with shirt, tie, socks and a jumper and Stuart gave me one of my own books from amazon which he intercepted in the post (three stars for working to a budget there).