Boxing Day has never been a particularly
good day for me when it comes to travelling up to the House in Scotland. I have
driven in icy conditions with cars slipping and sliding off the road in front
of me, and on one occasion, due to traffic congestion, it took nearly 5 hours to do a journey that should take half that
time. Yesterday was no exception. The weather was atrocious. Early morning torrential
rain meant that I was soaked just taking Cello out for his early morning walk.
By the time the car was loaded I was soaked for the second time. The motorway
was awash with water, and the journey was a difficult one. It was so unlike Christmas
Eve.
Christmas Eve was blue skies, the
kind of skies that seductively make you want be outside, to walk to skip and
just enjoy being in the fresh air. The fact it was the end of a December was a
special bonus. Part way through the day I realised that I didn't have any
fresh orange in the fridge. Orange juice, that is, to make a Christmas Day morning
Bucks Fizz. I had 2 boys aged 4 years and 18 months old, both in need
of some exercise. As we had been cooped up inside because of the rain, which had finally stopped, I
thought it might be a good idea to get out for a walk. So with my youngest daughters
warnings of ‘keeping the boys clean’ ringing in my ears, off we set.
Rather than walk to the local
supermarket, a good 20 mins brisk walk away, I thought we would walk up the
road to the local corner shop, a mere couple of hundred yards away. Now I don’t
know what it is about small boys, dressed in their best ‘bib and tucker’ and
puddles, but both Jack and Harry seemed magnetically attracted to every puddle
along the way. We had only been going for a few minutes when Harry resembled
the Dr Foster of the children’s rhyme, sitting in a puddle right up to his
middle.
Now the one good thing about
being a grandparent is that you never really get into serious trouble as far as
the grandchildren are concerned. Whatever happens it all eventually comes down
to the slightly exasperated exclamation of ‘Granddad!’ And so it was on
Christmas Eve, when the 3 of us got back to the house, orange juice safely in
hand but looking rather wet and dishevelled. There was a slightly forced smile, a cry of ‘Grandad!’ as the boys were whisked away to be dried off and changed.
It was ironic really. In the last
few weeks, here in the North of England, it’s been, as Samuel Coleridge wrote
in his epic poem of the Ancient Mariner ‘water, water everywhere, nor any drop
to drink’. The journey up to the House in Scotland was punctuated by news
reports of how folks Lancashire were being affected by the non-stop torrential rain.
Floods were wide spread, and as I sped up the motorway towards Scotland the
evidence was plain to see.
My heart went out to all the people
whose lives would be impacted by the rain and floods, as it did to all those people
where water is not freely accessible on a daily basis. It was a humbling couple
of days. The contrast of the boys splashing in a carefree way through puddles,
me turning a tap and enjoying a piping hot shower, and later, pouring a little water
into my evening whiskey, with those without water or those experiencing too much
water, was stark.
The next time I write my blog will be 2016 – and I'm hoping next year, whatever the weather brings, will see me working for a fairer more less unjust world. This is me signing off for 2015
– and wishing you and yours well for the next 12 months, and to infinity and beyond!
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