Pa's Tale

Dark and damp. I went cheerfully up to the golf club on Monday to find the course closed on account of all the rain. So I went home, then tried again at 10. Didn't fancy it, so moved to Plan B and went to the garden centre to buy some winter-flowering pansies. All I have to do now is plant them out. Un de ces jours.

The golf was OK on Tuesday, then after a lunchtime snack, the paper and a snooze. I must stop behaving like an old fart. And as for Wednesday, words fail me. But I am reading a bit more, back to Ancient Greece, as ever fascinated by Athens in the 5th C BC. How did they do what they did? How did they build the Parthenon? Why and how did they suddenly write some of the world's greatest drama, then stop? And why did they chuck it all away by fighting an unnecessary war? Many more questions than answers.

There is an ever-increasing South African presence. Saracens rugby club has been taken over by them, and most of their players are Saffers these days (work permits? How do they get in then stay? English grandmas?). They played a game against the visiting Springboks this week. They had the balls to hire Wembley Stadium and had 46,000 at the game. And they won.

But perhaps England needs them. Half our current cricket team is Saffers. It's a pity the white ones don't play football: the black footballers tend not to have English grannies.

Today was our 75th Birthday Golf Day, that is my chum John and me. We were not eligible to win the prizes we had put up, but we went out first as a two-ball and I took a quid off him. Not many people do that to John. 21 of us out in lovely weather. We took our after-play bevvies on the terrace, bathed in warm sunshine. The lunch was very good, though I couldn't over-indulge on account of I had a car there. Very enjoyable.

I'll force some supper down now. I'm going to research easy-to-eat stuff, because I can't get a good plateful down my throat. Last night, after taking telephoned birthday greetings from the Paris kids, I grilled a sirloin steak on my cast-iron griddle. Exactly two minutes each side, carefully timed, and it was very good. But I could only eat half of it. There is some minestrone in the fridge. That'll do.

I'll just mention a thing that puzzles me. How do you weigh carbon dioxide? If it is heavier than air, why aren't we wading around up to our knees in it? And even harder, how do you weigh a million tons of the stuff?

Because of the weather on Friday, I have been banged up indoors for three whole days. It's not good for my sanity. Though I did make a few quid on Thursday, being second best out of the sixteen who played. I don't remember doing anything at all on Friday.

I found a good way to deal with sleeplessness. Awake at 3am, I put the light on and did a sudoku, which took about half an hour (I never was quick at these mental teasers), then I went back to sleep until 7.30. Then coffee in bed and a book, then the paper boy came, and it was gone ten when I finally crawled out of my pit.

Then sport on the box. England were poor against Argentina but scraped a win. Then in the RL game, England and Aus were having a right good old ding-dong for an hour, then the Aussies turned it on and destroyed England with a brilliant spell of fast, accurate and athletic rugby league. Phew!

There was also a friendly game of football between England and Brazil. I saw a bit of that, including the Brazilian penalty shot that missed the goal by yards. Yawn.

A couple of games of 20/20 cricket between England and the Saffers - I suspect you have to be there. And today a proper rugby match for a change. Ireland drew with Australia by scoring in the last minute. There were more passes in any ten minute spell than in the whole of the England rubbish match.

Now here's a dismal thought about rugby union - the kicking game is here to stay. Shaun Edwards in the Guardian says that in the Wales v All Blacks game last week, unless they were in the Welsh 22, every All Blacks move ended in a kick. They should bring back the old leather balls - they won't go so far, especially in the wet.

As usual when I am bored I went online shopping, and I have ordered a nice gas hob to go with my new oven. My little present to me.

My equal-aged pal John and I have arranged a joint golf day to mark our 75ths. There will be bacon rolls and coffee before we go out, then a sit-down lunch. Lots of prizes, and needless to say, our honoured guests won't have to put their hands in their pockets, even for a swift half. The snag is that the weather has turned very nasty and could spoil the day. We'll see.

There is a steak and kidney stew festering on the hob; I have a substantial minestrone left in the fridge, and I have bought a decent sirloin steak for later in the week. So I'm not going to starve. I just wish I liked eating food more. Too much beer is probably dulling my appetite (though it never used to). Rehab, perhaps?

Wet or fine, there will be golf tomorrow!

I went to Guy's this morning to hear what the latest PSA count is. And it is even lower than four months ago. Two years ago this week, the PSA was 9.2, and this launched a year of off-and-on treatment including 35 zaps of radiotherapy and hormone implants in my tum.

After that, the PSA count was 0.47; the following four-monthly tests have shown respectively 0.25, 0.12 and 0.07. They don't use the word "cure", and there will probably be a bounce in the rate as the prostate itself recovers from the radiotherapy. Next test will be in six months.

I am writing this in case anyone reading it has a father or relative who has been diagnosed with prostate cancer and would like some encouragement. And I would be happy to be contacted if anyone would like to talk about it.

So that's over for six months.

My filthy cold is still with me, and I blame it for one bad shot on the 18th which caused me to lose in the semi-final of our group's little singles golf competition. I went to the trouble of making a full roast chicken dinner, with roast spuds, sausage, bacon and a nice gravy, then I could only eat half a plateful. I need some appetite pills.

The government has suddenly realised that all the windmills in the world won't make a dent in energy needs, and is going to push nuclear, which will take about twenty years to get on stream, hassled all the way by anti-nuke people who don't like coal or oil or gas either.

And I have been unamused by the antics of the two sides of the Post Office. The union may have just noticed that if they strike towards Christmas, their employers will lose all their best customers and there will be no jobs anyway. And the both sides keep using the term "winning". What is the matter with these people? Rearranging the deckchairs on the Titanic sums it up.

And a final rant about the sick people on the Sun who have ramped up this obnoxious rubbish about Brown's badly written letter of condolence to the mother of a dead soldier. For a start, he handwrote it, even though he is nearly blind. He spelt the family names as he was informed by some underling. And the Sun, no doubt under orders from their owner, went into attack dog mode. I don't know whether the Tories have distanced themselves from this foul crock of shit; I don't expect so, they are politicians after all.

Phew. Let me get back to the clean air of the golf course. I can't get on the Solo's New Year trip to Spain. There is an attractive-sounding few days to be had in Shropshire, but it's a four-hour drive. Too much for this clapped out old fart. So it will be Turkey in February. And here tomorrow and Friday.

The moment Paris left, I started this very nasty cold. But I did mountains of laundry. On Thursday I went to golf, looking for sympathy. Didn't get any.

Then I discovered that the Solo's golf trip to Spain for New Year was sold out. So I signed up for a trip to Turkey at the end of February. Everything included - golf, food, snacks, drinks (local stuff, but I'm not too fussy as long as it's alcoholic) - so something to look forward to.

Friday came, and I forced myself out of my sick bed to stagger up to the golf club. The dozen blokes waiting for a game heard me croaking and coughing and suggested that I went out first in a one-ball. But no. I went out as normal and took the money, thanks to an excellent short game. Eight pars (Tiger would look for that many birdies, but that's what he is paid handsomely to do), but so unwell that I couldn't force down the last of my pint. I said I wasn't well!

No interest in food, but I had to go to the supermarket to replenish my empty fridge. Then there was England and Wales on the box, losing at rugby to Australia and New Zealand. Not madly exciting. But Burnley got a 3-3 at Man City. That's good!

What a bore I am. OK, still am. Is it what they call "loss of affect"? I can't even go to bed early because millions of quidsworth of fireworks are being exploded in the neighbourhood. I don't know why they don't all go the the Heath to watch the spectacular show put on the the council to curry favour with the ratepayers.

OK. I've made the token posting, and I will shortly take the LemSip route to bed. My cold is quite debilitating. Happily I can feel the waves of sympathy coming over the ether. Thanks, folks.

...but it's over now, so I can sag back into do-nowt mode.

Paris and Bristol arrived on Friday, by which time I had played golf, collected cake and fruit salad from M&S, and made a lasagne. There is more boasting to come.

Brighton added to the numbers on Saturday. After my trip to Sainsbury's,
there was a potage bonne femme (otherwise known as "summer soup" - summer this and summer that). At some point, Rick went off to shop and advised me that, acting on information received as to the only thing I fancied for my birthday, he had taken the liberty to buy me a replacement built-in oven, on behalf of the siblings.

Then North London arrived, accompanied, happily, by Frank and Laurie, whom we haven't seen for four years. My grog supply took a merciless beating while I got the steak and kidney pies in the oven. Fifteen sat down to eat, by which time I was beyond worrying about whether there was enough.

A happy evening. Pumpkins were carved and illuminated (one left out at the front to indicate treats were available). There were fireworks, and a launching of paper hot air balloons, and a bit of music. Then, when everybody was still asleep - every room in the house was occupied - at 7.40 on Sunday morning the doorbell rang. The oven was being delivered. End of sleep and any thoughts of a lie-in. But my competent sons took out the old and wired in the new, and by 9.30 I had a new oven! (A side note - we put the old oven outside - 56kg of scrap, and by next morning it had disappeared.)

So we tested the new oven with a roast lamb Sunday lunch, while the rain teemed down outside.

Then it became Monday. It was cool but sunny on the golf course, and I played OK, while Paris went up to London Town. They went out to Helen for supper later. Quiet chez moi!

On Tuesday I went to see the vampire at Guy's Hospital; next week I will find out what the PSA count is. And we watched the entertaining last half hour of ManU's match. Some stayed up to learn about black holes from a BBC programme. I went to bed.

Paris left at ten this morning. I did some laundry then went up to the golf club (by bus, of course) for a couple of beers and the Veterans' AGM. I seem to have missed lunch, so an early supper beckons, and a bit of football on the box.

The snag about having a new oven is that it will expect to be cleaned, a function I haven't performed for many years. Perhaps a nice young Polish girl...?

Too busy to reflect on the endless incompetence of British governments. How I will play tomorrow is the main question. And whether I dare watch Liverpool.