Wiseman – Page 3 – only here for the cricket

The Little Chef and cricket

Had lunch with Glenn and Anna last Sunday. Their oldest daughter, Maria, who’s four and feisty with it, once the main course was over, removed herself from the table and installed herself on the sofa, where she declared she would take her dessert. Anna made it quite clear that unless madam returned to the table, improved her mood and began to behave herself, there would be no dessert at all. I reflected on how it isn’t all bad being a grown-up. After all, you can be grumpy and still have your dessert.

It’s Thursday night, and I’m in a Leeds hotel. DC and Wiseman are in the adjoining rooms. It sounds like Wiseman has just smacked his head off the wall, but I’m sure there’s a rational explanation. We’re here for a couple of days of the Second Test between England and South Africa. DC, being a rabid Scot, has adopted South Africa as his favourite cricket team for another month or so, or whenever their series against England ends. He refers to them as “our boys”. I, of course, am supporting England. Wiseman is along for the opportunity to drink beer, hopefully in the sun, and listen to the TMS commentary via a 15 second delay on his portable digital radio.

Having left straight after work, we were looking for somewhere to eat shortly after the halfway mark. The distance between Edinburgh and Leeds is 222 miles, which makes Leeds a superstitiously perfect cricketing destination for us. Almost bang on 111 miles into the journey, a sign for services appeared. Genius. We veered off the A1, hopping from foot to foot inside the car. “It’s a Little Chef, it’s a Little Chef – look look!!” cried Wiseman excitedly. He had already declared that wherever we stopped for food must have peas. Garden peas. Because he was in the mood for peas.

Little Chef fits the bill. Being a British institution, it must have peas on the menu. Unfortunately, it wasn’t a Little Chef, it was a remarkably dodgy-looking Indian restaurant. Right in the middle of nowhere. It says something for its dubious appearance that three lads not averse to a curry immediately turned the car round and headed back to the A1.

(The next services was only a few miles further on, and it was indeed a Little Chef. Wiseman was beside himself.)

Wiseman stayed in this very hotel two months ago, while on a university-funded course being taught how to hack into wireless networks. Between him and the sat nav, we arrived safely and without undue fuss. I landed in room 34, my age, which I took great delight in pointing out to DC and Wiseman, for whom the thirties are a distant memory. They may have the last laugh in the morning, however, as my room is the only one with what appears to be an ancestor of the Velux window. I also have a normal window, with a quirky triangular window above it, both of which have efficient-looking curtains. The skylight does not have a curtain of any description. I note with some trepidation that the sun is due to rise at 4:56 am.

Here’s to an early wakening…

Keswick and cricket bags

Being completely and utterly out of shape, I look forward to the start of the 2008 cricket season tomorrow with some trepidation. Not that I’m in danger of being found out during the game itself, as a leisurely walk to the middle and back shouldn’t tax even my fitness. It’s carrying the cricket bag that frightens me. It’s absolutely massive. Never has so much sporting equipment been used by one man with such little effect.

The league season actually kicked off two weeks ago, but I was at a worship conference in Glasgow that day, and last weekend I spent a lovely few days in Keswick with the family. Keswick is one of those rare precious places that has, so far, avoided fostering the Axis of Evil partners (Starbucks et al) and as a result retains a wonderful character all of its own. The family, these days, comprises my mum, my sister Alison, her partner Angela, and little Maggie. That’s a lot of females. By the time Monday came, and Alison’s friends Diane and Caroline arrived, with their little girl in tow, I was just about ready to come home. It was just me and Hamish the cat, bloke-wise, and he was neutered, poor thing. You know things are in a pretty sorry state when your only man-to-man conversation is with an emasculated cat.

Couldn’t be more different from my last visit to Keswick, when, all the way back in 2002, I shared the very same cottage with 5 other lads, in order to celebrate my best mate Grant’s impending marriage. Not a female in sight, apart from the TVR Tuscan we had hired for the weekend. Our Keswickian neighbours were mightily impressed when we revved the 4.2 litre straight six outside their window of a morning. I worried for the whole weekend that Grant would wrap the TVR round a tree, which would have instantly lost me £1000 in insurance excess, which I didn’t have. My anxieties were not eased when it started snowing on the Saturday morning. But we all made it back in one piece, including the car.

So anyway, in preparation for the forthcoming cricketing humiliation that is the 2008 summer, I lumbered down to cricket practice two nights ago, and was promptly sent in to bat, whereupon I unfurled my array of cricketing strokes. I managed to display all my best ones, including the leading edge, the top edge and the outside edge. Somewhat disconcerting, cricket practice, as the surface in the nets is some artificial substance in pristine condition, with a hard, true bounce. Whereas we normally play on slow pitches with variable bounce. So the merits of net practice are somewhat questionable, although it does at least allow you to reacquaint yourself with your cricket bat when you haven’t picked it up since last season, and of course gives you some practice in the art of carrying your oversized cricket bag to and from the car. It also allows you to spend at least a few minutes ‘batting’, as distinct from ‘carrying one’s bat to and from the middle’.

Wiseman called me tonight to see what I was up to. I was busy, as it happens, on the way through to Glasgow to see the aforementioned Grant. On my way to my first ever Italian restaurant with an Indian waiter (Parmesan and black pepper, pliss? Thank you pliss) although I didn’t know it at the time. So I suggested we hook up tomorrow night after cricket.

“You’re playing cricket tomorrow? Crumbs, you’ll be depressed.”

Thanks Mark. As distinct from my usual ebullient self, you must mean.

I may not be depressed (although there is every likelihood of this) but I will be sore. Ten minutes of batting followed by what amounted to two overs ‘bowling’ (I use the term loosely) and two days later I feel like I’ve been run over by a truck. Or maybe a large cricket bag…

The return from Val d’Isère

“Everything hurts,” moaned Wiseman early one morning. “Perhaps we should take up colouring-in, or something.”

We, the walking wounded, hobbled and limped back into Edinburgh yesterday after a 5 hour delay in Chambéry.

Ladies and gentlemen, a message for those flying to Edinburgh on flight BA1961. Unfortunately your aircraft has landed at Lyon.

[D’oh]

Please expect a delay to your flight.

No kidding.

Lynne managed to use the time wisely, lying down in the medical room after refusing to go to hospital with 3 firemen in their fire engine. When will she get another chance like that? Perhaps she’d had her fill of men in uniform for a while, after being attended to on the slopes by men in red and yellow ski suits.

Myself, DC and Kirsty had skied over a crest yesterday afternoon to discover Lynne sprawled unconscious on the snow. She came to after a couple of minutes and before long was being stretchered down into Val d’Isere. It was all very exciting, albeit slightly worrying, and I daresay she would rather not repeat the experience.

Filipideedoodaa had her own adventures the day before, cartwheeling down a red run and injuring her ankle badly enough to rule her out of skiing/boarding for the rest of the holiday.

Aside from that, we sustained a few twisted knees and one or two bruises. Val’s twisted knee was much worse than mine, but I complained more. Wiseman is currently walking like John Wayne, and now that we’re back I have been perfecting my dual limp (both legs hurt so I can’t favour one over the other). With four physiotherapists on the trip, sympathy and compassion were in desperately short supply, so there was no point in looking for any before now.

Managed to conquer my T-bar demons, on Thursday. Neither run was without incident, however. When on a T-bar with someone they should ideally be of a similar height. The first time up was with Mandy, who only avoids being officially registered as a dwarf by a couple of inches. I am over six feet. We began with the bar at a comfortable height for her, and finished at the top with her skis barely touching the snow. On the second run I was sharing the bar with the Haxtonmeister, who is of a more similar stature (although somewhat more rounded), but somehow managed to cause him to wipe out at the top regardless.

Much hilarity has been had overall. Siobhan’s name proved too tricky for her French ski instructor, who insisted on calling her “Cheval” (translation = “horse”) throughout the week. Our instructor, on the other hand, spent several minutes calling out “leeean, LEEEAN” to us as we were cruising down the piste during a lesson. We were doing a leaning exercise at the time, so we duly tried to lean even more. We were virtually falling over before we realised that he was trying to get Lynne’s attention.

The same instructor, who demonstrated an admirable ability to not only smoke on a wind-blasted chairlift but actually roll his own, was exhorting us to “caress the snow” and “embrace the gravity”. He explained that we needed to be more “fairy-like”. I felt the need to point out that behaving like a fairy was not a good thing for a British bloke to be doing.

The pranking shenanigans continued through the week – when Wiseman and I arrived back in the chalet on Monday night after posting the last blog entry, we discovered our room had been divested of its beds. I asked Mark if they had been put out on the balcony.

“Nope, I’ve checked.”

Turns out he had stuck his head out briefly (“it was cold”) and decided they weren’t there. We then proceeded to search the entire chalet, or at least the bits we could access, before returning to find them … on the balcony.

On another day Ken went to relieve himself, and lifted the toilet seat, which promptly exploded. Jen’s bed started laughing when she lay down on it, her famous red coat went missing for days, and several people’s toothbrushes also disappeared. The latter thief remains unidentified despite Ken training his video camera on the bathroom door to try to catch the culprit.

Mental Mo and Nasty Jen organised a ceilidh on the final night, attendance at which was more or less compulsory. Mysteriously, Ken found it took him several hours to pack for the journey home, despite having a rucksack only marginally larger than Jen’s handbag. Even the chalet staff – Osh, Tom and Liam – were invited. One really can’t blame them for running away and hiding downstairs for the entire evening.

The presence of most of these reprobates made the airport wait that bit more enjoyable, and when we finally got on the flight, Broon fell asleep, which allowed me to steal her meal. You snooze, you lose.

And so, a great holiday is over. I will miss so much about it over the next few days. Like the early morning routine with Wiseman.

“Mark, are you awake?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Good Morning.”

“Morning.”

The formalities completed, I pulled the duvet over my head for extra sound insulation, in preparation for The Clearing of the Nasal Passages.

Actually, I might not miss that. But I will miss the skiing. Not going to be taking up colouring-in just yet, bruises or not…

Val d’Isère, Day Two

And to think we were concerned that there might not be any snow this early in January. It’s been snowing almost non-stop since we got here. The Haxtonmeister had to dig his car out yesterday morning, and employ his snow chains for the first time.

Consequently the skiing conditions have been tricky, with low visibility and great piles of powder on the pistes. As a result, everyone had a less than ideal first couple of runs yesterday. Blue skies are forecast for tomorrow, with the snow to return on Wednesday and Thursday.

The chalet is absolutely outstanding, and the food matches it. Each room is ensuite. I am sharing a twin room with Wiseman. The gap between the beds is not what it could be, and the beds themselves are fairly narrow. I woke up this morning and engaged Wiseman in an early chat.

“There was some encroachment last night, mate.”

“Whit?”

“YOUR ARM WAS ON MY BED.”

He just shrugged, obviously underestimating the distress it caused me. Such are the joys of sharing rooms with insensitive people.

I went to have a bath this evening after skiing. Took one look at the bathtub and popped my head back round the door to satisfy myself that there was any hair left on Wiseman at all. Quelle surprise, there was. I spent 20 minutes cleaning the bathtub out. Wiseman declared that I was making a bit of a meal of it.

“That’s what I do, Mark.”

“You do it very well.”

“I’ve practised.”

James popped in to our room sporting a mohican.

“Ooh, it stinks in this room,” he announced.

Actually it had been smelling fine until James arrived and dropped one. We exited the room to find some clean air, and found Nasty Jen lurking in the corridor. Fortunately I had a small bag of snow in my hand, and thereupon commenced a small snow fight, which was fairly evenly matched, until James entered the fray. James, being five years old, knows no boundaries. She nearly lost her trousers, poor girl.

The pranks proper have begun. Broon, whose birthday it was yesterday, opened her wardrobe to the strains of Cliff Richard singing “Congratulations, and celebrations…” They (Broon and Jen) worked out how to turn it off disappointingly quickly. (One imagines that it was Broon who figured it out).

As for the skiing, Wiseman has been finding himself “becoming one with the mountain” fairly frequently. As for me, I found myself becoming one with a random skier on the slope who was surprised to see me skiing up the slope straight towards him. We embraced briefly and then collapsed in each other’s arms. Disappointingly, it was a bloke.

I also had a disaster today while attempting to get onto a chairlift. I skied into the correct position in the middle of a group of three, and then, well, carried on skiing really, right off the front of where you’re supposed to stop. Overbalanced to the right in front of Filipideedoodaa, who completely failed to haul me back into the correct position, and instead kicked me so hard that her ski came off and she collapsed in a heap. The liftie, showing a remarkable amount of restraint, refused to give her a good telling off for her actions, and simply helped her retrieve her ski. Very gracious, these French.

Both the Haxtonmeister and Mental Mo have acquired new ski jackets and trousers, which means that this year they won’t be wearing their all-in-one romper suits on the slopes. This is most disappointing, and the photos will be all the less entertaining as a result.

Finally, quote of the day.. from James to his mum as she shepherded him back from the slopes:

“Ah… it’s good to be alive.”

Did I mention he was five years old…?

The Second of January

The Second of January is a really great holiday, celebrated, as far as I know, only in Scotland. After a late night at New Year, New Year’s Day is a write-off, and the Second arrives like a welcome tonic. How does the rest of the world cope going back to work on 2 Jan? I hope I never have to find out.

This year, I ventured hesitantly towards the sales at Ocean Terminal straight after New Year. After some fortification in the shape of lunch, Wiseman and I perused a couple of shops (literally a couple. One each). I found some very nice jumpers at £13.50 in Fat Face, which I considered long and hard over, before a cursory glance at the label made up my mind.

I wandered back outside to where Wiseman was waiting.

“Couple of really nice merino wool jumpers, mate.”

“Oh?”

“Didn’t get them.”

“No?”

“Hand wash only.”

“Ah.” Wiseman nodded knowingly. “Single use only, then. Either that or you’ll have to get married.”

“Yeah. And that would end up costing me a lot more than £13.50…”

Skiing and Car Engines

Went indoor skiing at xscape with Filipideedooda again last week. It’s now only six weeks or so before the next epic ski trip takes place, this time to Val d’Isère, so we thought some practice would come in handy.

We stood at the top of the slope, planning our route down. Friday night is freestyle night, so there were a number of jumps and rails on the slope.

“I think I’m going to go over the fence this time,” said F.

“What fence?”

“That one with the black netting.”

“That’s not a fence, F, that’s black netting blocking off the jump to stop people going over it. Presumably for a reason.”

Filipideedooda, being a ‘kickass boarder’ by nature, and therefore accustomed to flicking V-signs at authority, decided to jump over the “fence”. She flew off the half-formed jump, over the black netting, which was sagging somewhat, and landed in a heap. I skied over to her and helpfully pointed out that there may have been a reason why it was blocked off.

Skiing in France with F will be fun, there’s no doubt.

“Oooh, can we go and ski over there? It looks fun.”

“What, over there in the area marked off with yellow-and-black striped warning tape?”

She went straight back up and tried “the fence” again. And wiped out again. And again, with the same result. I gave up reasoning.

We moved on to a ‘park bench’ where F came off, lost a ski and proceeded to take out the next 3 boarders attempting the bench while trying to retrieve her ski. It was all very amusing. I should give credit where credit’s due, however. At least she was adventurous.

Wiseman, after missing last year’s ski trip with an unmentionable injury, is looking forward to this year’s adventure very much. Phrases like “carving up the slopes” and “becoming one with the mountain” are being bandied about with alarmingly bullish self-confidence. Having discovered that he has elected to join the Forces of Snowboarding Darkness, Mental Morag has queried whether or not he has invested in some sort of padded arrangement for his butt, in case he becomes one with the mountain rather more often than he had anticipated.

A more recent development has been a sudden re-interest in learning to drive. This might be down to me giving him a voucher for two free driving lessons for Christmas. Except that was in 2005. Rather than take up the lessons, Wiseman has waited two years, and then begun devouring books on the subject. In the space of only a couple of days he has become an ‘expert’. In fact, one could say that he has ‘become one’ with all motor vehicles. All of a sudden, failures to indicate appropriately, and other minor driving irregularities, are being loudly pointed out to me as I drive him around. It came to head last night when he insisted on inspecting under the bonnet of my car and wanted me to point out to him where the coolant and oil get topped up. We had just spent an evening in the company of our charming Donegal housemates, eating good food and playing Articulate. For the record, and in the interests of objective reporting (for which I am renowned), the boys got hockeyed. Not being the best loser, I was in no mood to stand around pointing at car engines in the freezing cold, but we located the relevant items and then I took him home, where I believe he was planning to read up on some more road signs.

Perhaps on snowboarding as well. Let’s hope the book has a chapter entitled “Why you should never go skiing with Filipideedooda.”

Edinburgh, Sat 27 October

Vindication. Didn’t have a collapsed lung, but Gilly heard the mouse just after going to bed. Exited her room pronto and slept on the landing instead. I feel my reputation has been restored.

Left the cottage about 9.30am. Gilly left us in Letterkenny to head home for a break with her folks. Shazza led us all a merry dance across Co Derry and Antrim to the boat at Larne.

Managed to bully Wiseman, Shazza and Broon into a game of Scrabble on the boat. They got hockeyed.

Never ones to make the same mistake twice where good food is involved, we stopped at the Kilmarnock Little Chef this time en route back to Edinburgh. Spotted several New Hollands, a vintage Massey Ferguson and some other tractors on the road in Ayrshire. Even one Shazza and Broon weren’t familiar with. No John Deeres though.

And so it ends. A week’s holiday which met or exceeded all our expectations. Back to the daily grind… but only 2 months ’til Val d’Isère 2008…

Donegal, Thurs 25 October

Up at 7.30 this morning. After getting up at 2.50am to shut Mark’s bathroom window, which was causing his door to rattle. The tinnitus has subsided somewhat today, it having been raging since one of Shazza’s shrieks during Articulate two days ago. Wiseman has been a little deaf on one side as well, but I haven’t seen him yet this morning to discover if it’s coming back. Rumour has it he’s gone for a run, but there’s no sign of him on the beach.

Shazza apart, it’s so quiet here. And dark. When the lights go out, it’s really really dark. Probably helps that we’re the only inhabited cottage for some way.

Broon has been up since very early, baking a cake and some biscuits. Not a bad person to have on a self-catering holiday, Broon. Cake and biscuits today, and she’s slated to mastermind the roast tomorrow night.

Gillian looks entirely unperturbed this morning. I fear she may not have heard the mouse. Enquiries draw a blank. Wiseman has not heard the mouse either. Everyone thinks I’m imagining it.

I have a scar on my ribs this morning which I’m not imagining. Wiseman attacked me with a teatowel yesterday, and I’m putting it down to that. I did, however, retaliate with a sweet flick to his forearm, which drew blood in quite a satisfying way.

Wiseman has been getting into the spirit of doing things differently, and has switched from taking his tea black with no sugar, to milk and two. Not sure this is entirely the kind of switch one should be making.

Had a quality grilled breakfast today, and then set off on an epic road trip to Malin Head – the most northerly point in Ireland.

“I’ve lost about three inches off my spine” complained Wiseman as we were driving along another bumpy road. “And at my age, I didn’t have too much to play with to begin with.”

I hit another bump at speed.

“Make that three and a half. It’s no wonder there’s so many leprechauns here.”

Weather was brilliant again today – cold, but clear blue skies and sunny. Last two days now have been perfect autumnal weather.

As a place to go to get away from it all, Donegal in the autumn is hard to beat, so it is.

Donegal, Weds 24 October

Up early again. This time I reckon I could’ve slept in a bit more, but a combination of hunger and a need to pee forced me up.

Pulled back the curtains to discover a pinkish glow framing the mountains across the water. Sun was an orange ball just above the horizon.

Going to be the best day weather-wise, so far.

Spent the morning on the beach again, playing frisbee and jumping over waves. Gillian arrived and we headed back for some lunch (chilli. It’ll be chilli for the next few days), before embarking on an afternoon road trip, as is our wont. I was getting low on fuel, so I headed south to Kerrykeel to get some diesel. The petrol station in Kerrykeel is actually a Seat dealership with a couple of pumps. The pumps are fairly effectively blockaded by new cars for sale, so I had to manoeuvre carefully to get the nozzle within spitting distance of the car. Wandered in to pay for it, and they asked me how much I’d put in. Nice to be able to run a business on trust like that.

Mark cut his navigational teeth with me in Toronto. Navigating there was a cinch, looking back. The Canadian compass only has 4 points. Here in Donegal the compass doesn’t have any predefined points, and over to my left the map was being twisted this way and that, as we left the thick yellow roads and joined the thin yellow ones. The thin yellow roads in reality resembled someone’s driveway, and looked like they’d last been surfaced long before the Partition in 1921.

This evening we made our way back up to the head of the peninsula to Fanad Lodge, for a hearty Irish dinner. Mark ordered a T-bone steak.

“How would you like the steak done?”

“Blue, please.”

The waitress almost passed out. “Bl-bl-blue?”

Then she scurried off to find out if the steak could be cooked ‘blue’.

“Aye, sure that’ll be no problem” came the reply.

She came back grinning nervously. The steak, when it arrived, was almost bigger than the plate. I haven’t seen Wiseman smile as much since he consumed a large bottle of Tiger beer on Saturday night.

Actually, he’s been smiling a lot this week, everyone has. It’s been a belter of a holiday.

Donegal, Tues 23 October

Got a good night’s sleep last night, slept soundly. Still woke at 6.30 though. Sounded windy and wild outside, but when I surfaced at 8.45 all was calm. Might even see the sun today.We heard a weather forecast on the radio yesterday, in Irish Gaelic. Broon was confident the girl was saying it would be a nice day today. Perhaps her grasp of Gaelic is better than I thought…
Since we’re on holiday, we’re all trying to do things differently from how we might at home.

I, for example, am drinking tea with no sugar, which admittedly only happened initially because Broon was detailed to bring the sugar and she didn’t arrive until Sunday night. But have persisted, more or less.

It’s bizarre how we’re all waking early. Broon wakened at 5.15 this morning and felt ready to get up. No-one has so far been able to sleep much beyond 9. This is in stark contrast to my normal experience in Ireland. When I returned home to my parents during my university days, after a day or two I could happily sleep until midday no trouble. I put it down to the country air. However, the air doesn’t get more country than it is here, and it’s not working…

This morning the sun duly shone and we all trooped down to the beach for a game of cricket. Wiseman found a good bit of swing from the Golf Course End, and induced an edge from Broon, but she refused to walk. Outrageous. The game ended once Wiseman started taking a liking to my bowling and despatched me into the soft sand at deep extra cover, twice. Off came the shoes and socks, and we braved the arctic water temperature for a paddle. Once numbness had set in we dumped Broon in the sea, accidentally, although this appeared to be cold comfort for her, and came back for some lunch.

Driving in Donegal can be a challenging experience. To begin with, there are the aforementioned road surfaces. On leaving a village, a sign will optimistically inform you that you can now drive at 80km/h. Not if you value your shock absorbers, you won’t.

Then there are the road junctions, which appear out of nowhere frequently without any form of road markings to indicate whether or not you have the right of way. You have to work out if your road is wider than their road and behave accordingly. If you are on the narrow road, then plough on, and those on the really narrow road will just have to wait.

The signs at junctions are just hilarious. Frequently they will be pointing in a direction which neatly bisects the two roads they may be referring to. As a result, often you have to drive past the junction before you can read the sign you’re interested in. Also, certain regions of Donegal are An Gaeltacht – that is, Gaelic is officially recognised as being the first language there.

When this is the case the signs switch from being in English with an Irish translation, to just simply Irish. None of us are particularly fluent in Irish, Broon’s weather forecasting notwithstanding.

This afternoon we went on a road trip. At least Shazza, Broon and I did. Wiseman stayed back at the cottage to “write”. He’s “a writer” you see.

Shazza and Broon, being farmers’ daughters, have been largely unimpressed with the tractors we have come across on the holiday thus far. There’s been a lot of quantity, but not much quality, apparently. Plenty of Massey Fergusons (“wouldn’t pull the hat off your head”). We saw a couple of John Deeres today, which got them a whole lot more excited.

We took in the Atlantic Drive, which took us through Downings, where I spent a great weekend in the company of a schoolfriend and his family, near enough 20 years ago. Then headed along the coast stopping off at various points en route to the Bloody Foreland. Stopped in Dunfanaghy to buy Broon a shillelagh, since she didn’t know what a shillelagh was. Oh, the shame. Now she still doesn’t know what it is, but at least she knows what it looks like.

We came home to find that Wiseman had been busy in the kitchen, and had rustled up a pot of chilli big enough for a platoon of Mexican soldiers.

After dinner we played 3 games of Articulate, boys v girls. They got hockeyed.