The House Husband

I had a lovely two Cansfield day today. Lunch with Dawn followed by dinner and football with Nicktor.

As usual I met Dawn at the Mill in Haslemere where I enjoyed a pint of Timothy Taylor’s Landlord with 23 members of the local WI. They were quite a boisterous lot who drank bitter shandies, red wine and orange juice before tucking into big plates of fish and chips.

Blue skies over the Mill

We then headed back to Castle Cansfield for a lovely lunch of fish cakes and salad, lovingly prepared by my hostess. While we sat, ate and chatted, the rain came, giving everything a jolly good soaking before Nicktor arrived home, resplendent in his new pinstriped suit.

The suit is part of his new job image change and he looked rather dapper and, dare I say, professional. Odd when you think that when we first started having Nicktor Nights, he went to work in jeans and t-shirt. I used to think he was a frustrated IT guy.

The boys then arrived home from school in their blazers, looking like a couple of scholarly chaps in need of some homework. Nicktor and I then left for Farnham.

We decided it best that we left the car at the house and hop on a bus to Aldershot so Nicktor could enjoy a few pints over a big, hearty pub dinner. I say ‘dinner’. He actually had a big breakfast.

It was then a leisurely stroll down to the Rec, turning up 10 minutes before kick-off for the game against Burton Albion. Much more civilised than last week’s early start. Even so, there was a healthy crowd on the Slab. Due, I’m sure, to the fact that part of the deal for the Man U tickets was that spectators had to buy tickets for tonight.

The mighty Shots played a fast and furious first half, netting two wonderful goals and leaving Burton standing still. It was a great half of football (well, for us, anyway) and a lovely display after winning last Saturday 3-1. Rather strangely, the referee wore the same colour shirt as the opposition. Clearly he hadn’t checked before taking the field. It made it rather difficult to figure out which one he was.

The second half saw us slow the game a bit while Burton became more physical, trying to break through. But the couldn’t and we went on to win 2-0. The referee changed his shirt at half-time so we could actually pick him out on the field.

Actually, I’m not usually one to accuse refs of having a bad game but this guy did tonight. It was all in danger of slipping out of his control and he made a few dodgy decisions. Still, regardless of his efforts to the contrary, we won and left the ground in a joyous mood.

Our original plan was to get a taxi home but Bill offered us a lift in his new car. How could we refuse?

Back at home we watched the delightful O, Brother Where Art Thou? which, I’m glad to say, Nicktor loved, followed by an episode of the delightfully silly Sorry. Then bed.

A delightful day.

Ages ago I had an email from Dawn, asking whether Mirinda and I would like to accompany them to Chichester to see Sweeney Todd, the Demon Barber of Fleet Street. Seeing as Sweeney is my favourite musical, it wasn’t a tough decision. As I said, this was quite a while ago and it’s been a wait but tonight it was finally time to go.

Ignoring any remarks by Mirinda, as soon as I discovered that Michael Ball was cast as Sweeney I thought he was terribly miscast. I’m not saying he’s not a great musical performer, just that he’s not what I’d consider, Sweeney material. Not that this affected whether I’d go or not.

Well, I was right. The star of this production of Sweeney Todd was Imelda Staunton as Mrs Lovett. She was extraordinary. I would go so far as to say she gave one of my top five performances in a musical. And I’ve seen a few! Her performance was completely and utterly flawless, believable and delightful.

While this is wonderful for Ms Staunton, it’s an awfully big hill to climb for Michael Ball. And it was a hill he never managed to climb. He sang the right notes and managed to deliver the dialogue, he didn’t bump into the furniture and found the spots but he wasn’t Sweeney. No malevolence, no brooding violence, no coiled spring. And his accent grated.

It occurs to me that this production should be renamed Nellie Lovett, the Pie Shop Owner Who Knew Sweeney Todd.

It’s a shame because the rest of the production was fantastic though why the designer decided to set it in the 1930s rather than Victorian London is a bit odd. I can understand transporting plays of the human condition back and forth through time in order to show that human beings change little over time but Sweeney is really all about that period. He is a victim of the iniquities of the vast gaps in the Victorian classes.

Still, that’s a minor quibble and one of artistic difference. The beauty of Sondheim’s music and lyrics is all pervasive. From the shock of the short, sharp phrasing to the constant thrum of the bass strings, it reached into you and tweaked your emotions with ease. From the initial staccato “…swing your razor high, Sweeney…” which springs unexpectedly from the opening smoothness to the shrill blasts on the steam whistle, it was all perfect.

I’m glad to say that Nicktor stayed awake and Dawn enjoyed it. Mirinda wasn’t so keen on all the blood. In the car she said “Give me Oklahoma!” Still, I think we all had a good time although it would be remiss of me not to mention the appalling auditorium at the theatre. What an architectural horror! Clearly the designer didn’t have the comfort of the audience in mind.

From the theatre it was off to the wonderful Earl of March for dinner.

Cheers from the Earl of March

All up, a lovely day spent with the Cansfields. We really should do it more often.

Even though I don’t work – well, in the traditional way, whereby I interact with other people while getting paid for doing something deemed worth paying for – my weeks are filled with ‘stuff’. Weekends, on the other hand, are a time when Mirinda and I can chill, enjoy the garden and/or visit other people’s, basically just enjoying each other’s company more than anything else. When she’s away, I tend to feel a bit lost.

Dawn obviously felt a bit sorry for me; with a vision of me sitting at home moping (not mopping, which is difficult when seated) and so invited me to join all four Cansfields at Millfest.

Millfest is an annual event held in the beer garden of a lovely, very English country pub in Milland, not far from them. Fortunately it’s quite a sizeable beer garden.

They have a number of (unknown) bands performing on the smallest stage I think I’ve ever seen, a fantastic beer tent as well as the bar, a food delivery service that is run with military precision and a massive crowd of, mostly, family groups.

I was very lucky. Nicktor offered to come and pick me up. This was lucky for a couple of reasons. Mainly because the trains were replaced by buses between Farnham and Aldershot, which would have been a pain. Also because I haven’t seen Nicktor for a few weeks so it was nice to have a catch up in the drive back.

While waiting at home, I managed to watch the first half of a rugby league match between Warrington and Wigan (a quarter final of the Challenge Cup) which, I can only describe as amazing. After the first 25 minutes, Wigan had played like a bunch of crazy people, building up an impressive 22-0 lead. Then everything turned on it’s head and Warrington scored some fantastic tries to go in at half time at 22-16.

I’m not the biggest league fan in the world but the game was incredibly exciting. It was like Warrington had been dazed and confused while Wigan ran all over them and then, shaking themselves, full clarity returned and they fought back. It was a pity the half ended because I reckon they would have ran away with the game at that point.

Nicktor arrived as half time drew to a close so I didn’t get to see the rest of the game. On Breakfast this morning, I heard that Wigan took the game 24-44. Without having seen the second half, I figure that Warrington just ran out of steam. The ‘pundits’, the sort of guys that dad hates, were saying at half time that if Wigan wanted to win, they had to not only defeat Warrington in points but also in stamina. They didn’t think they would, particularly after Warrington staged the sort of comeback that Spartans would be proud of. Well, Wigan showed them!

Anyway, we arrived at the Cansfield house in time to see the last few Indian wickets fall in the first test at Lords, before heading out to Millfest.

It’s not often that I get to see the entire family in one go, so it was a bit of a treat for me. As Dawn was driving, she wasn’t drinking, so it wasn’t as much a treat for her.

Interestingly, the acts we saw were very good with 60s, 70s, 80s, 90s and 00s covers but failed miserably when it came to trying Pink Floyd. One memorable performance for all the wrong reasons, was by a girl in black and white horizontal stripes wearing acid blue bedroom slippers, trying to emulate Clare Torry‘s wordless performance on The Great Gig in the Sky. She wasn’t very good…that’s me being generous.

A stage clearly not made for Big Bands

Still, apart from the Pink Floyd blunders, the bands were quite good. They performed some great medleys of songs that were strung together very well. I should add that we didn’t see the earlier bands which, even I, cannot comment on. I particularly liked the Led Zeppelin numbers they performed although the woman drummer, while in all other ways excellent, was no John Bonham.

While we were there, Nicktor seemed to attract an inordinate amount of female attention. As he greeted, what seemed to be his harem, I asked Dawn who these women were and she just shrugged, as mystified as me. After she asked him for the umpteenth time who they all were, he made sure to go and chat to a few males he claimed to know.

I managed to snap him with a couple of his floozies. Apparently, after I took this photograph, the woman with him was a bit concerned. I’m not sure if this was because she didn’t want to be seen with him or she just didn’t want to be seen. Regardless, I’m not big on showing mercy without foundation.

Nicktor notices my high powered zoom lens

Millfest ended for kids at 10pm so we packed the car with the boys and took them home. Dawn drove me to Haslemere station where I realised I was drunker than I thought I was.

With a great amount of effort, I managed to read the indicator board to find that the next train to Guildford wasn’t for three quarters of an hour. Adding this to the journey time and the fact that I would have to change trains then get a railway bus meant I wouldn’t be home until September. I went and grabbed a taxi.

And what an knowledgeable taxi driver I had! At one point, while classical music filled the cab, we were discussing the Russian novel One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich by Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn. Actually, I was talking about growing up in Australia and happened to mention the fact that in the Russian labour camps, if the temperature sunk as low as -42, they didn’t have to go to work, quoting Solzhenitsyn and he came back with “A Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich?“. We had a jolly good chat about how Russian literature developed as a result of a repressive rule.

At home I collapsed beneath the weight of over excited puppies and gradually drifted off to sleep with the television entertaining itself. At 3am I decided I should go to bed.

So, it didn’t rain today. The BBC promised grey clouds but the sky has been blue as blue can be. Glorious. I had been concerned that my lunch with Dawn may be rained on. Well, it was, really, just not by the weather. I was bumped!

Today was to be a double Cansfield day – Dawn for lunch, Nicktor for the night – but I have been reduced to one. Dawn bumped me for the kids. They had a half day today. What is the education system thinking? Half day? Humph.

Anyway, I have a Nicktor night tonight, which will go some way towards cheering me up. We’re off to see Aldershot and have a few drinks…the usual. First time for yonks. Really looking forward to it.
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The park was so lovely, we took full advantage of it and walked the path right around today. This didn’t stop the inevitable FSI, of which both of them partook. Smelly dogs! And they always complain about the bath afterwards. You’d think they’d learn.

Here they are lording it at a culvert:

Carmen & Day-z on the bridge

Dawn has a new man in her life. I met him today. He has taken up residence in the ‘good room’. Nicktor hasn’t said how he feels about the new situation but Dawn assures me he likes Seymour enough to be photographed with him. So I guess it’s cool.

I started the day by steam cleaning the mattress. Not my favourite job in the world, particularly when it comes to untying the electric blanket. Why do they have to have such tiny cords? It doesn’t matter how you tie them, they just get too tight; the only way to release them is to use the biggest needle in the needle-wheel. This took longer than the rest of the job.

Steaming done, I went up to Farnham for the shopping then back to take the poodles up to the castle. Carmen decided she needed a bath and took great pains to find the biggest FSI she could.

I then jumped on a number 19 bus to Haslemere to meet Dawn at The Mill. The trip takes an age usually but Garp saw it over much quicker.

I arrived at The Mill to find the normal entrance blocked with drop cloths and paint pots; a couple of chaps were busy cementing a bunch of bricks together in the door frame. I wandered round the front and walked into the bar.

I ordered a pint of TEA and read while I waited for Dawn and listened to quite a few people being told there was no food today because the kitchen wasn’t finished as it should have been. A lot of disappointed lunchtime visitors at The Mill today!

At Chez Cansfield I was surprised at not being snapped at by Polly. In fact, she let me pat her and didn’t even bark. After I was introduced to Seymour, we had a lovely salmon and salad lunch and a good natter before heading out to take the Westies for a walk.

It was a lovely lunch (I haven’t seen Dawn for ages) but it was all too soon over and I headed home. After a suspicious welcome from Carmen (I assume she could smell Basil) I headed out to mow the lawn and burn the rubbish.

Yet another busy day.

Dawn stares lovingly at Seymour, her new man

Last night I went to the Rec and watched Aldershot for the first time this season. In not entirely a night of surprises, they lost, 3-0, to Watford in the first round of the Carling Cup. We were totally outclassed by a much better team. I guess that’s something. It’s not like we played really badly just not well enough. And, really, what did we really expect? Watford is two leagues above us after all.

What was a surprise was who I went with. I thought it was just going to be Nicktor, James and me until the car pulled up outside with Frank driving. And his son and Matt in the back. That was odd for a start. James loves Aldershot but Matt is less than enthusiastic at the best of times. Still, we drove to the car park and started walking to the Crimea for the usual pre-game pint of that perfect of all beers, 6X.

Along the way we collected a few more people. Two guys from Nicktor’s road and their sons and James. Five kids, five adults.

Five pints and five cokes later, we crossed over the road and headed for the Slab. I’d already assumed we’d not be in the East Bank because we’d have James with us so it wasn’t a surprise when we headed that way.

Nicktor’s re-flared gout was causing him to limp a bit so that caused some hilarity, which grew in direct ratio to the increase in pain. He’s a medical anomaly. It’s far too soon for a relapse. It’s a good job he wasn’t called on to run around the pitch. It was noticeable his discomfort increased dramatically over the course of the evening. By the time we were ready to walk back to the car, he looked like one of the walking wounded from the Charge of the Light Brigade. Or perhaps his body was unhappy it wouldn’t be spending the night at our place.

A bit of an unexpected treat awaited us as we entered the ground. The young guy who bashes the drum relentlessly during every home match was standing against the fence having a few tentative thumps as the rest of the raucous orchestra met up with him. It was observed by one of our party that he looked rather menacing, presumably on the lookout for rival drummers.

The day had been wet throughout, off and on, so standing on an exposed slab of concrete for a couple of hours was bound to attract a certain amount of damp. I’m pretty sure this is one of those immutable laws, like the one that Murphy came up with. Something like: “If there’s a chance of rain and a large gathering of people all stand on a big slab of concrete, they’ll be rained on.” And we were. A number of times.

Not that it was very wet. It was a series of English showers, the type of rain that doesn’t actually make you wet. I like to think of it as thick mist. It was quite noticeable on the pitch, though. Sprays of water came off the ball every time it was kicked and the ground was rather slushy.

The one good thing about being on the Slab is that you’re really close to the action, albeit only one bit near the southern touch line. The boys all lined up against the fence and shouted rude things at the opposition players as they pummelled our goal mouth in the first half. By the time Watford had finished us off at the beginning of the second half, the boys were telling jokes and talking to me about games.

It’s amazing how kids (make that, boys) react when someone tells them I tested games for a living. They get all excited and suddenly you’re the coolest adult they know. They then insist on comparing notes on the newest and most violent games on the market. Fortunately Stevie keeps me in the loop about these things so I can generally manage to keep up with them. Though it did make me yearn a bit for my old job. Though not with Cowabunga, of course. I should add that the other part of my job is generally drooled over by any male adults who find out.

Anyway, the game dribbled away as we chatted about Ultimate Assassin (the comedy version) and GTA – I managed to get a plug in for Smuggler’s Run, a particular favourite that Stevie and I spent many hours completing. It’s a bit Old School these days but still a great game, nevertheless. The final whistle gratefully blew before Watford could humiliate us further and we headed for home.

Actually, Aldershot managed a bit of a late flurry but to no avail and they remained with no goals. To be absolutely fair, they didn’t play badly. I have been at some games where they seemed to have sent a load of replacements on the pitch, possibly the local limbless darts team, but this was not one of those. We were, quite simply, outclassed. So, no need to be miserable, lads! At least it’s one competition we don’t have to worry about for the rest of the season.

The company was fun and it’s always good to go and watch football. It was also a chance to catch up with Nicktor who I’ve missed over the last couple of weeks due to the temporary suspension of Nicktor Nights. The Cansfields are off to France next week (entirely coincidental, I hasten to add) so we organised for our next NN to be the 25th. He told me about the positive slew of gory, bloodletting films he’s managed to amass since our last viewing so I’m hoping for a welcome return to relative normality, fairly soon.

The boys, ready to heap abuse on the Watford players

Today I saw two Cansfields. Here’s a photo of one of them:

Dawn in the good room which is rapidly becoming a library

I popped over to Liphook on another one of those mercy dashes I’m so good at. The ones involving IT problems which I can never seem to fix. Which is all of them. Actually, that’s not entirely true. The time I went over to rip out an old hard drive I was very successful.

Anyway, the problem was with a laptop that just refused to see the router and, therefore, was bereft of any Internet of any kind. It was my first exposure to Windows Vista and now I know why I hate it so. No wonder there was such fanfare and exhultation after the arrival of Windows 7. I’ll not go into all things I hate about it as it would probably make a longer entry than the snooker one.

But before I failed to fix the IT problem, we went to The Mill at Shottermill for a lovely lunch and a pint of fff. It’s odd but when pubs chalk up the beer from this brewery they write ‘Triple fff Alton Best’ which, unless my maths is worse than it usually is, a total of nine fs or fff fff fff. The brewery is called Triple f or fff. Not that it matters much. Their beer is all that matters. And it’s very, very nice. The brewery is just down the road near Alton.

Lunch over, we popped over to Liphook so I could pretend that I knew what I was doing and managed to score a mug of coffee and a mauling by Basil. That’s a friendly mauling which is more than I can say for Polly! Apart from barking all the time I was there (almost), she just barked! Crazy dog. Her tail wags all the time too. Dawn reckons she’s undecided. I think she’s right.

The photo is to show Nicktor’s Billy construction. I think I mentioned in a previous post about his gargantuan effort to erect 400 IKEA Billy bookcases in the good room and there is the evidence! Dawn was gracious enough to pose so I could splash her all over the Internet. Behind that smile she’s all sufferance.

And, of course, it being a Tuesday, Nicktor is due soon for his weekly dose of Gaz Movie Madness. But first, the pub. And I think I hear his gentle pitter patter on the door just…about…now.